Dice
by sansbear
Summary: Different circumstances happening at different times. Think wormholes. Alternative Reality.
1. Curtain

**A/N:** I'm writing at a warped sense of reality, so disregard relatively all plot points of this show. Also, although I'll be writing in the past, there will be no past tense. Only in rare circumstances will I use it. Enjoy.

I own nothing except for the two new characters, Leslie and Paul.

**August 1993**

The diner draws her only because of the heat. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck and she angrily puts it up into a ponytail. Damn her damn car. How does this shit happen? How does she end up in the last place she ever wants to be, walking towards the last place she ever wants to walk towards?

She pauses on the sidewalk across from the diner, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. No one is on the street, but she can see people huddled in buildings, leaning against the glass windows, chatting, laughing, arguing, slurping slushies and enjoying the invention that should have won every single prize in the world: the AC.

Looking across at the grayish blue of the diner's paint, at the hardware sign and then at the coffee mug with his name and his establishment written across the front, she wonders if she should head back or go to Doose's or to Miss Patty's place instead. Then she thinks of the free food and the unquestioning nod upstairs to use his phone and his bathroom and she breathes in the muggy air, which, ironically, settles her nerves.

_Screw it_, she thinks to herself, _so what if I just up and left the last time we slept together? So what if he only called once and I didn't bother to pick up? He owes me, dammit. He owes me._

She walks slowly across the empty street to his full diner and hesitates before swinging open the door and hearing those jangling bells. A blast of cool air hits her and her skin immediately bumps up. She ignores the curious glances of the town gossips and makes her way artfully to the counter, where, thankfully, a spare stool sits open right in the line of sight of the grill.

She slides onto it, her short jean skirt riding up so that the upper part of her thighs hit the cool seat. She lets out a little sigh of relief which turns into surprise when a tall, frosted glass of lemonade is set in front of her along with an extra large slice of apple pie, cold, with pistachio ice cream.

"You still like pistachio, right?" he asks and she can feel her skin turning red at the sound of his voice. Even now, after months of knowing him and sleeping with him, the sound of his gruff, sardonic voice induces throbbing in the most private of places.

She takes the fork he placed on the plate in her hand before looking up at him. He is staring at her with his expressionless blue stare, the one that can strip her naked and make her crazy, especially in this heat. She pulls out the same stare and she still gets that same little thrill just knowing that she can make his eyes change color that fast.

"It's been two weeks, Luke. Tastes don't change in two weeks," she replies, her voice unintentionally husky.

"Some tastes do, Lorelai. Why are you here?" he asks, frank, something he usually isn't with her. She takes in his appearance, seeing him from a different standpoint, one of intense want. His hair is longish and messy and he's wearing a plain blue t-shirt that is tight across the chest and in the sleeves. His jeans are slung nicely on trim waist and she has the incredible urge to tug at his weathered leather belt.

She takes a sip from the glass and lets the tartness from the lemonade affect her words.

"Believe me Danes, I didn't come by for your warm hospitality, although the ice cream and apple pie certainly gives you an almost human shape," she stops to take a forkful, delicately licking a drop of pistachio ice cream from her lip, "I came by because my car broke down in a hundred degree weather and the diner is the only place I can stand while hot."

He searches her face while she eats, for what, he can't be sure. They always start out like this-barely civil yet subtly lustful and three hours later he's prostrate on his bed, wrapped in sweaty sheets listening to Lorelai hum Bowie while she showers and dresses. He won't deny that should that happen today, he wouldn't welcome it-he's just tired of waking up alone and feeling like he's the scratch for her itch.

He gives her one more watchful gaze before motioning his head towards the stairs.

She pretends to be taken aback by his gesture at gallantry. "No, Luke, I couldn't. Really, I'll just use the phone-"

"Lorelai," he sighs and she knows he can see through the act. He's getting good.

She gets up, taking the plate and the glass with her and without looking at him goes up those familiar wooden steps to that familiar apartment. She doesn't realize how silent it had been in the diner until she's in his apartment and can hear the sudden flare of talk that had been restrained.

She shakes her head and steps out of her flats, setting the plate and glass on the modest kitchen table. This town and their gossip. She wonders how he can take living here, being the way he is. She slings her bag onto his armchair and goes to the phone and dials the number for AAA.

Five minutes later, she hangs up, moderately more satisfied with her situation now that her car will be fixed and ready for her come tomorrow morning. She finishes off her pie and lemonade and goes to the bathroom.

She showers using his soap and dries herself by wrapping herself in a towel and resting on his bed. She runs a hand over the dark blue and green plaid sheets, the material not soft and worn like she's used to. She breathes in his pillow. That of newly opened sheet set smell has replaced the smell of his shampoo and of laundry detergent. New sheets. He doesn't buy new things, not in two weeks.

For some reason, this disturbs her and she shuts her eyes to his apartment and opens her mind to other things. She dreams of hands and his mouth and the texture of his skin as it collides with hers. She dreams of her tongue sliding along the bottom of his lip then continuing down until he is shaking and gripping her shoulder.

She can feel the pressure now and she moans, her body becoming flushed when that pressure turns into a brush across her shoulder blades. Luke, her mind whispers.

"Lorelai, wake up. It's after ten," his voice snaps her back into the present time and she shoots up, unaware that during her sleep her towel had opened.

He casually takes one side of the towel and covers her, his blue eyes too light for her to read. He is sitting next to her on the bed, an arm over her legs. She reaches for his face but he gets up. She puts her outstretched hand to her own face to find that she is hot and shaking.

"God," she whispers, suddenly embarrassed and covers her face when he comes back to stand above her.

"Here," he drops a t-shirt and boxer shorts onto her lap. She peeks out through her fingers at the clothes.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he says before turning from her and going into the bathroom.

She can hear the rub of the cotton shirt on his skin as he takes it off and her pulse quickens when she hears him unbuckle his belt, the quick rasp of the leather as he pulls it free from the belt loops. Her heart begins to thud slowly when the zipper makes that quick unzipping sound and puts a hand to her forehead when he gets into the shower, the shower hooks scraping the metal rod and the sputter then splatter of the water as it bursts forth from the shower head.

She is burning with the knowledge that he is naked and that nakedness is lathered in soap and water is sluicing down the muscles of his neck and of his torso, of his back and his legs. The image and the want propel her onto her feet and she is in the bathroom, clutching the towel to her. She feels that what she's doing is dangerous, hell, she knows what she's doing is dangerous. She hasn't felt him for two weeks. She pulled at her skin for all those days, hoping that it would stop remembering how easily he made her feel too much. She knows that this absence is her fault, but she saw him and now she is here and she has gone too long without feeling too much.

She pulls aside the curtain and he quickly turns to her, shocked. She lets her eyes betray her hunger and that shock turns into something more dark and unknowing. He turns his body fully towards her, everything becoming tense as she slowly rakes her gaze from wet head to toe. When she comes back to his eyes, they are glittering with the kind of need that allows her to drop her towel and step into the shower with him, completely unafraid that he might kick her out.

The water is cold as it washes around her feet and sprays her skin. She steps closer and places her hand on his chest, running it down over his stomach. His skin is soft from the soap and she moves closer still, so that the tip of her nipples grazes his chest and the tip of his erection presses into her stomach.

His hands come up to her waist, but they fall away and he does not touch her. Instead, he stares down into her, like he is looking for something that will make doing this okay, that will reassure him that this won't become another two weeks. She bites her lip and raises herself on the balls of her feet to his mouth.

"It's not. I'll try so that it won't be," she says against his lips and shudders in relief when his mouth comes down on hers and holds her under for what seems like hours. He lifts her and her legs wrap around his waist. He turns them both towards the shower tile, the cold water beating into her side. He moves within her in one quick thrust and she cries out, the movement spiking further heat throughout her body. He burrows himself deeper by using an arm under her behind to grind her pelvis against his, adding to both their pleasure. He flattens her against the shower wall and, with her holding on to his neck and shoulders, begins to drive into her, his mouth periodically finding its way to her breast, nipping and lathing it. She squeezes her legs tighter, unconsciously trying to contain his fullness. Her cries become louder as his pace becomes faster, her grip on him becoming tighter, her nails digging into his shoulder blade.

She cries out something unintelligible as she climaxes and one hard thrust later, he is right there with her, in a state of complete exhaustion. She is limp in his arms and he reaches over to shut off the water when she starts to shiver violently. He carefully withdraws from her as he sets her on her feet. She gives a small moan and clings to his shoulder, her legs unsteady.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed, turning down the sheet and placing her under it. Her hand finds his and pulls him back as he's about to leave. He gets under the sheet with her and they fall asleep, their hands clasped between them, their heads sharing a pillow.

The next morning, he awakes to find himself on his stomach, his arms around a pillow that is bunched under his cheek, his legs sticking out from under the sheet. The morning sun hits his eyelid and he turns his face the other way. He comes out of sleep when he hears her humming. The song is different, one that he's heard on the radio he's forced to turn on when Taylor starts in on him. He can also hear voices from downstairs, numerous voices.

"Shit," he sits up and she looks over to him from his armchair, a cup in her hand. She is dressed and her dark brown hair hangs in a shoulder length bob.

"Don't worry-I called in Josh. There's orange juice on the stand next to you and a bowl of fruit, courtesy of Josh, who hopes you take it easy and told me to tell you that fruit is better than soup when dealing with a cold," she says, a layer of ease underlying her dryness.

He glances at the nightstand, unable to process why she is still here, drinking from his cup on his armchair.

"I thought you'd be gone," he says, deciding that it's better to cut to the chase than to play at whatever game she might be up to.

She sighs and gets up, setting the cup down sharply on the kitchen table.

"I said I wanted to give it a try. Do you think I would sneak out of here after I said that?"

He doesn't reply and she goes to sit next to him on the bed. "I meant what I said Luke. I do."

He nods, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, that's good. That you mean it. It's good."

"Mmmhmmm, it is very good. Last night was beyond good. How can I give up something that good?" she smiles playfully.

He shrugs, laying back, a small grin on his face. "So it's about that, huh?"

She bends over him and gives him a slow, heated kiss.

"We got to start somewhere," she says as he rolls over her and that is the only conversation they have for the next couple of hours.


	2. Easier

**November 2007**

The knock on her door this late at night doesn't startle her. Her mother periodically drops by at odd hours whenever her loneliness becomes too acute for old movies to handle.

She gets up from her computer and goes to the door, peeping through the eyehole. Her breath hitches in her throat and her heart starts to pound in her chest. Her fingers tremble when they go to the locks and undo them, and her hand hesitates turning and pulling the knob towards her, opening the door.

He is standing directly across from her, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He's dressed in a casual suit, as though he just came from a dinner party in the city. He has stubble and his hair hasn't changed from the last time she saw him.

She moves back and he moves in. She shuts the door and locks it, facing the dark cedar wood for a second longer than necessary, trying to gather her thoughts. She has no thoughts. She is beyond surprised. She doesn't know anything, and that scares the shit out of her.

She turns to face him and he is sitting at her kitchen table, a black and white marble notebook in front of him. He is looking at her in a way that always confused her, made her feel small and naive and unworthy.

She goes and sits across from him at the table and his eyes leave hers to look her over, touching upon the new shortness of her hair and the bifocals that rest low on the bridge of her nose and the paleness of her skin. Her blue eyes are still the same glass he remembers and that comforts him in a small way.

"You look good," he says, warmly.

"You smell like the city," she says without thinking and then looks away, biting the inside of her lip. What the fuck is she, six?

"I smell like exhaust, Sabrett hotdogs, and coffee?" he asks and she looks back at him when she hears the crooked grin in his question. It's not on his face, but it's in his eyes and she grins a little.

"You forgot cigarettes and sewage."

"Oh, sorry," he smiles and she gets up, remembering her manners.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea, juice, water, something, anything?" she hurries, looking through her fridge for something drinkable.

"Water would be fine."

"Good. Water I can do," she says relieved and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, a glass from her cabinet, and sets it in front of him.

"Thanks," he says and twists the cap to the water bottle, then drinks straight from it. She sits back in her chair and watches as he downs half the bottle, wipe his mouth, screw back on the top, and set it next to the glass.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"I came to see you and give you something. And to tell you something, but that depends on how seeing you and giving you something goes," he replies easily and she wonders at how he can be so calm, especially since this is the first time they've seen each other since she basically used him to get back at Logan.

"Well, you're seeing me," she states.

"I am."

"And?"

"You look good."

"Good how?"

"Pre-eminent journalist good. Beautiful good. All good. Is that good?"

"That's good enough, thank you," she replies quickly, suddenly remembering how dark his chocolate eyes can become. Even more suddenly she remembers how easy it is to fall into that darkness.

"I haven't even asked how you are," she says, adjusting her glasses and messing with her ponytail.

"I'm fine, thanks for almost asking," he says wryly and she fights against the urge to offer up another smile.

"Are we finished with the preliminaries?" she asks nervously.

"We are if you are."

"Then we're done. Now what is it you have to give me? The notebook, I presume?" she nods towards the notebook in front of him.

"You presume correctly."

"Is it a manuscript?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but she just reaches out her hand and pulls the notebook across the table, turning it so that the 'Name', 'School', 'Grade' lines face her. She reads them and then reads them again and then lets the words swim in front of her until the words dissolve into letters and then the letters dissolve into the meaning.

Jess Mariano. Putting Up With Rory Gilmore. Graduated.

She opens the notebook and reads the first paragraph. The back of her throat starts to itch and she starts to cough. A glass of water is placed next to her hand and she takes it and drains it. She continues to read, the itch in her throat turning into extreme dry mouth.

She reads one page and looks up at him, finding that he is watching her intently, reading her reaction. She flicks her gaze back down and continues, becoming absorbed in the words and the meanings and the feelings they produce.

When she reaches the end of the notebook, it's like a cloud raining warm water takes up residence above her. She can't catch a break, every time she takes a breath there's water waiting to come in and drown her.

She sets the notebook down and stares at him. He looks up from a book, puts his pen down where he was reading and closes it.

They sit in silence for what seem like hours.

"No words," she says finally, taking off her glasses.

"I never could tell if that's a good thing with you."

"I don't know what kind of thing it is. I'm not comfortable with not talking while all these thoughts are running around in my brain. Oh, wait, here's a thought," she puts back on her glasses and points her chin at him, "I resent the label Chilton-ite."

"Then I'll just use 'Emily in training'."

"Use 'Chilton-ite' then."

"I will."

She sighs and rests her hand on the notebook. "You wrote about us."

His gut tightens and he can only nod.

"And you wrote about the you side of us."

He nods.

"I don't know what to say."

He nods.

"I mean, what am I supposed to say?"

He nods again.

"Stop nodding and answer me. What am I supposed to say?"

"That I should finish the ending so you don't look like such a cold bitch."

He can tell that he's shocked her out of feeling dazed and into being angry. Her cheeks get faintly red and her lips purse and her already glass blue eyes turn translucent. And then she does what he least expects.

She laughs.

She laughs until there are tears in her eyes.

"Rory?" he questions, not at all comfortable with this new reaction stemming from an old tell.

"Jess, oh, Jess," she says after her laughter dies down and she is grinning at him with a grin she hasn't grinned at him in maybe a year.

"I don't know what kind of ending you were hoping for when you came here, but I can't give it to you now. I want to, but I can't."

He watches her for a couple of minutes, totally thrown. Just when he thought he knew her, she throws in a couple of wrenches, string theory, and a jack for good measure.

He stands up with a strained smile and picks up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Well, that was my bi-annual try. Let me ask you one more thing," he says as she gets up to say something, looking away from her so that he doesn't completely loose the face that he thought he saved, "is it still the blonde dick from Yale?"

She bites her lips, debating on whether to be straight with him and decides that she can only be that with him.

"Yes. Indirectly yes, it's Logan," she answers softly and he nods.

"Keep the notebook. I won't be printing it anyway."

He goes to the door, unlocks the locks and leaves the way he always does- without a backward glance.


	3. Paul

**October 2009**

Paul,

It was never easy to tell you how I felt, so I'm writing this letter to you because that's the only way I'm going to do this without fucking it up and mumbling. I'm leaving by the end of the week for a program in England. My Dad is absolutely miserable about it, but what can he do? He wants to see me happy, he just doesn't want to see me happy on another continent. You know my Dad, so you know how contrary he can be, but I love him and I'll miss him.

Okay, so I have to stop stalling. I'm going to use a total cliché here, but I find it completely appropriate for this situation: we should be friends. We were always better as friends, better as people who can have a twenty-minute conversation on the reproductive cycle of zygomycota. I miss those times, Paul. When did the awkward silences start? How did we get to the point where I have to write you to tell you I don't want to be with you instead of saying it to your face? How did we get to the point where we shut each other out? I have no answers on my side, although to the second question I can say that this cowardly emotion has been building inside of me for some time now and by writing this letter, it has come out in full-force.

Please know that this letter and its sentiments are in no way related to the fact that I'll be in England for an extended period of time. It's not "Jude Law and a Semester Abroad", although if it were, maybe it would be easier. I can hear you now, telling me that things are never easy. But Paul, can they be, just this once?

April.

P.S.- What kind of closing am I supposed to use after a letter like that?


	4. Commencement

**May 2007**

Luke loves the morning, especially just laying in bed for a couple of minutes so that beginning of the day settles upon him.

He stretches and turns over onto his back and does it again, his joints popping and his bones cracking, or creaking, as April would say. He smiles and looks at the clock. 6:30.

He swings his legs over the side and shuffles to the window, sweeping aside the curtain. Green grass and three different types of gardens greet his eye. The door of the tool shed near the high hedges that surround his property is open and he can see April coming out with a leash and a little bucket. A normal 6:30 am, nothing is different except the weather. Everything is as it should be.

He watches April until she and the dog, a half Boxer, half German Shepard behemoth named Linnaeus, are out of sight before turning away from the window and going into the bathroom. He is about to brush his teeth when he catches his reflection in the mirror. He stares at his face, but he isn't seeing his stubble covering his cheeks or the thick eyelashes Leslie pesters him for having.

He can see Lorelai's face, bending down to his, her lips slightly parted for a kiss. He can see her smile, her lips curving upwards in a devilish way, her blue eyes twinkling. His vision blurs as his remembers when he first saw her, her hair pinned up hazardously on top of her head, her glasses slipping down her nose, the deep purple dress she had on hugging every curve. She was guzzling coffee and flipping through a textbook, occasionally setting down her cup to highlight something. She was beautiful.

He clears his throat and the memory vanishes, as does his blurry vision. Memories of her creep up on him at the most unexpected times and when they recede to the voluntary closed off Lorelai section of his mind, they leave him feeling as though he was there, living it like it was the first time.

He runs a quick hand through his short hair and looks at himself.

"Get a grip," he says and picks up his toothbrush.

He just finishes scrambling eggs when he hears the front door open and close and the jingle of dog tags.

"April! Breakfast," he calls and takes down two plates.

She breezes into the kitchen, Linnaeus behind her. "Dad, there's someone here to see you," she announces plainly, taking the plates out of his hand and setting them on the table, then going back and getting another one.

"What? I didn't hear Linnaeus," he says, going to the kitchen window and peering out, trying to see who it might be. A slender dark figure is standing at the porch steps, back towards him. There's something in that posture that brings back the maple smell of Stars Hollow. The past is out on his porch.

"You didn't hear Linnaeus because Linnaeus is in love, aren't you, you big dog," she makes a face at the dog, who just sits and pricks his ears at her.

"In love with who?" he asks, turning back to April.

"The person that's here to see you," she answers and grabs a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator.

"Do we know this person?"

"Well, I don't know this person that well, but you do. And you like this person very much."

He rolls his eyes and looks out the window again. The figure hasn't moved.

"Why are you being so cryptic?" he asks and she takes a small skillet of sliced ham out of the oven.

"Because this person said they wanted to surprise you. And because I know how much you love surprises," she answers primly and smiles when he glares at her.

"If this is one of our weird, tree-hugging neighbors ready to give me soybean cakes and sing me a song about solar panels and the death of Alaskan salmon, I'm calling the police to arrest you for killing what was a pretty good morning," he grumbles as he washes and dries his hands.

"I assure you, Father, it is not Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy."

He nods, doubtful. "Right. Put on a pot of coffee for me, will you?" he asks before leaving the kitchen and going to the front entrance. He takes a deep, calming breath and opens the door.

Before he even opens his mouth the dark figure turns and he is momentarily struck dumb.

"Hi, Luke."

He blinks and his mind starts working again.

"Rory?"

"The one and only."

She's taller now and she let her hair grow out. Her face still had that doll look to it and her eyes are blue, like her mother's. She isn't wearing any make-up and she's dressed in jeans, a pair of old school converse and a light green polka dot shirt underneath a big black light pea coat. He remembers hearing that the weather over on the east coast is unseasonably cool.

He steps forward and when she steps back a little, he changes his mind about giving her a hug and holds out his hand. She takes it quickly and shakes his hand firmly, her fingers cold and hard.

"You're taller and your hair is longer," he says after a while.

"Yeah, I grew it out, but besides your daughter and me, no one else likes it," she lifts a shoulder.

"Well, it suits you."

She nods and they stare at each other, Luke becoming more confused as the time passes.

"I don't want to seem out of line here, but what are you doing in Seattle? Aren't you graduating from Yale soon?" he asks, not wanting to draw out this awkwardness any longer.

She shoves her hands in her pockets and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I am graduating from Yale, that's why I'm here. I wanted to give this to you, in person," she brings out a medium-sized manila envelope out of her pocket and hands it to him.

He takes it from her and slowly opens it, pulling out two white and blue invitations emblazoned with Yale's emblem on the front. He sets one of them and the manila envelope on a crate that serves as a table and opens the other one.

He starts to real aloud:

"_The President and Fellows of_

YALE UNIVERSITY

_announce that_

LORELAI LEIGH GILMORE,"

He pauses as she walks over to stand next to him and looks down at the invitation in his hand. He continues:

"_is a candidate for the degree of_

_Bachelor of Arts_

_at the three hundred sixth_

COMMENCEMENT EXERCISES

_Monday the twenty-eighth of May_

_in the year two thousand seven_

_at ten-thirty o'clock in the morning_

_on the Old Campus."_

He finishes, his throat dry. His first little girl is graduating. He looks over at her and she is looking up at him, a small smile on her face and sadness in her eyes.

"It doesn't seem real to me yet," she says.

"It does to me. My first girl, graduating from Yale. It seems very real to me," he says and her eyes fill up with tears.

"Rory," he says, concern etched on his face as he recognizes her tears as something other than happiness.

"I'm supposed to be angry with you. I'm supposed to be telling you off by now for leaving Mom and me. Right about now I'm supposed to be telling you that you missed out on my Yale days and I want you to miss out on this day, but I want you to know it this time, I want you to have the invitations in your hand on that day at that time and know that I'm walking across that stage and you aren't there to see it," tears slip from her eyes and she brushes them away carefully, her voice cracking.

She goes to stand by the steps and leans against a column.

"I am supposed to be so fucking pissed off with you, Luke, but when I stepped out of the taxi and met April and your dog and walked with her to your house, most of my anger dissipated and when you read the invitation, all of it vanished and now I feel tired. I feel tired and I feel like an asshole because my own father didn't say what you said, he didn't do what you did."

She shifts her gaze away from his shocked one and wipes her nose with her sleeve. "Even though you were thousands of miles away, you were my Dad. And I felt you left me to be the kind of father to April my mother wouldn't let you be for me. No," she holds up a hand, silencing him when he starts to protest, "no. She told me. But I was still angry. You still left. But what were you supposed to do?"

He stares at her for a few seconds before placing the invitation back inside its sleeve.

"I was supposed to be there for you. And even though I wasn't there Rory," he sets the invitation on the crate and fixes her with a still look, "I was there. I made sure I was kept apprised of what was going on, through Sookie and Lane and practically the entire town. Even Paris sent me a collection of your work while you were editor of the daily and as a reporter," he ends wryly and she raises an eyebrow.

"Paris?"

"Yep. You've got a friend for life in that girl. It's good to have people scarier than you on your side and she's firmly on your side."

She nods, smiling. "Yeah, I guess."

Her smile fades slowly and she pushes off the column, standing straight and bringing her coat more firmly around her.

"Well, I should get back to my hotel. I just wanted to give you the invitations and, although it wasn't my original intention, I want you to be there, really be there, you and April. It would fill my heart if I saw you out there, crying," she says awkwardly.

"I'll be there, but I can't openly say I'll be shedding some tears."

She grins and turns to leave when he says her name.

"Yes?"

"You should stay for breakfast."

Caught off guard, she wobbles on the top step. "Why?"

"Because April already set a place for you."


	5. Another L

June 1996

Luke looks over the application of another worthless loser, but he decides, because this person looks so in need of something, to go through with the interview.

"So, you're a student Danny?"

The girl (he assumes she's a girl because she appears to have breasts) fidgets with her cap and takes another swig from the sugar-laden soda she brought with her.

"Well, technically, I am. I go to school, yeah," she says dully, her voice so flat and so male it's frightening.

He nods and looks back down at the application in his hand, trying not to lose his patience.

"It says here that you've worked at a diner before. What did you do?"

The girl picks a pimple on her chin as she thinks, then she burps, opening her mouth like a person would lift their leg to fart.

His patience slips down into the danger zone.

"Uh, I like, bussed tables and mopped floors, you know, janitorial stuff. I'm just looking for a part-time job while I complete my major."

His curiosity that this…girl might actually have an interest besides wearing three t-shirts of varying lengths and muted colors, the ugliest black jeans he's ever seen in his life, and shiny black military boots that belong in _Full Metal Jacket_ actually has him asking about her major.

She burps again, like it's as natural as breathing, and answers, "Marine Biology. I want to go to Sea World and be a technician for the Shamu shows."

He stares at her, at the short plain brown hair that she scratched about ten times since sitting down, at the red spread of pimples on the line of her jaw and across her cheeks, at the lumpy and Gumby-like body, and imagines her in a wetsuit, wet. Something familiar starts to happen at the back of his throat. He continues to stare at her and imagines her teaching Shamu to respond at the sound of her burps. The funny feeling at the back of his throat becomes sharper and more pronounced and before he knows it, he's chuckling.

The girl looks puzzled and looks around. Seeing no one, she turns back to him and chuckles nervously too, reminding him of Beavis from Beavis and Butthead, and his chuckle turns into a full out laugh. He's laughing so hard, his stomach burns from the force of it.

The girl gets up quickly. "What the fuck is your problem, man?" she says angrily before stomping out and he laughs even more.

He gets up and goes behind the counter, still laughing, and looks through the rest of the applications. God, he'll never find a set of people as good as Tom and Caesar. And, while he hates to admit it, he doesn't want to train anyone to be as good.

His laughter dies down and he goes through another bout of self-doubt. Maybe he shouldn't have moved to Seattle. Maybe he should have tried to make it work in Stars Hollow. Maybe he shouldn't have left all that he knows to start again in a place so foreign, it might as well be another galaxy. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"There a sign outside saying 'Now Hiring'. Are you?"

A distinctively husky female voice breaks through his concentration and he looks up, surprised.

A young woman stands a few feet from the counter, staring at him intently. She's young, no more than twenty, and she has a bookish look to her. Her hair is braided and pulled back in a messy bun and bamboo bracelets clink against each other as she rotates her wrist periodically. She seems increasingly nervous and he realizes that he's staring.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I still am."

"So do I fill out an application?"

He shakes his head, figuring he might as well interview her now. He has a feeling about her and her one Bob Marley t-shirt and slightly baggy jeans and Doc Martens.

"No need. I'll just ask you some questions, see how it goes. Okay?"

She shrugs, slipping her messenger bag strap over her head and sets it on the counter, taking a seat at a stool directly in front of him. She folds her hands together and looks at him as if it's a business meeting. He likes it.

"Do you have any experience working in the food industry?"

"I helped my Mom with her bakery and later with her restaurant. I can cook, I can bake, and I can bus, if I have to. And I do all three things pretty damn well," she answers matter-of-factly and he analyzes her face for any obvious sign of dishonesty-her brown eyes are level, her mouth is firm.

"So why work here?"

"Because my mother's establishments are based in Canada."

He doesn't follow up with anything and her face remains impassive.

"Are you looking for part-time or full-time work?"

"I can start out at full-time, but once it hits the fall, I might have to switch to part-time."

He nods, impressed with the way she doesn't bullshit her answers.

"One more question: can you make muffin tops?"

She raises an eyebrow, confused. "Muffin tops? As in the top of muffins?"

He nods, serious.

"Yes. I had a friend back home that made muffin tops. They were really popular and I could never really get the hang of making them."

She lifts a shoulder and sets her hands flat on the counter. "I could after some extensive experimentation. Why," she grins and her brown eyes light up, "does getting this job require knowing how to make muffin tops?"

Her grin is infectious and he finds himself giving her his first grin outside of April since he moved here.

"You already got the job, so no."

She breaks out in a full smile and stands up, holding out her hand. He takes it and her handshake is warm, dry, and firm.

"Thanks so much, Mr.…"

"Danes. Luke Danes. Call me Luke."

Their hands drop away and he takes out a notepad and a pencil.

"I forgot to ask you your name," he says, touching the tip of the pencil to his tongue and writing information for her first day down.

"Oh, it's Leslie. Leslie Ellis."

He quickly writes her name down on a different sheet of paper and rips off the one he was writing on and hands it to her.

"That's some information about the job and your start time and day."

"Okay," she reads over it, slinging her bag over her shoulder, "I'll be here Monday, at five thirty. An ungodly hour, but I'll be here."

He smiles and she inclines her head in a goodbye, leaving as silently as she came.

Leslie.


	6. Arrival

**June 2000**

She is nervous. Her palms are slick with sweat and her heart is beating way too fast. She tells Rory to wait and veers off into the bathroom, thankful that the restroom is empty and she has her pick of stalls to throw up in.

She walks calmly into a clean stall, locks it, and bends over, emptying the chicken nuggets, waffle fries, Crunch bar, and coffee she had for the day into the toilet. She wipes a thick string of spit from her mouth and flushes the toilet, noticing that her hands are trembling. She hasn't trembled in a long time.

"Mom?" Rory's concerned voice echoes throughout the bathroom and she holds her head, the noise clashing with the million thoughts that are buzzing around in her idiot brain.

"I'm fine, babe. You were right when you told me to pace myself, by the way."

She peeks under the stall and sees Rory's brown boots, the ones Luke sent for her last Christmas, the ones that he wrote to her saying that they are good boots for Europe and for her birthday he sent her a sturdy canvas backpack, all the buckles clasps actually functional. Her eyes start to sting and she gulps down air, begging whatever divine spirit is up there to please not let her cry on top of vomiting in the space of ten minutes.

"Mom? I can hear you sniffling. Let me in. Please?"

She unlocks the stall and Rory pushes it open, looking down at her mother. She squeezes in their luggage and shuts the door, settling against the stall wall opposite her. They stare at each other, Rory wondering what else she can do, Lorelai wondering if she'll ever be strong enough.

"Your nose is red," Rory says softly and breaks off a wad of toilet paper.

"Yeah, that's what almost crying does to me. It makes my face look like I've been pelted with tomatoes," she mumbles and wipes her face with the paper. She rests her head on the wall and let's out a long stream of air, her body deflating. She closes her eyes to this stall, to the airport, to Seattle, to Washington, to everything. She hates being this way in front of Rory. She wants her to think that nothing affects her except her, the light of her life, her bluest and most humble munchkin. She smiles to herself as she remembers when Rory was ten and she was a blueberry for Patty's version of the Nutcracker. And then she remembers that he was there, he fixed her roller-skates for the disco sugar plum number, he fed them before, during, and after the play, he got the soap for her to wash the blue paint off, he laughed and helped Rory up when she fell over, he was there.

Tears tickle the back of her throat and she rubs her it, hoping she doesn't do what her body wants her to do.

"Mom, what's going to happen when we see him?" Rory asks, breaking through her thoughts.

She sighs, thinking of an answer that will give Rory some reassurance, but she knows it would be useless to lie to the kid. She has a bullshit detector she must've gotten from Emily and Lorelai doesn't feel like being called out on it today.

"I don't know Rory. I really don't know. It's been six years and I don't know why I'm here."

"You're here because he sent two tickets."

Lorelai opens one eye to find her daughter staring straight at her with a no-nonsense glare.

"I don't like it when you use more brain cells than I am. Stop."

Rory's eyes soften to just a glare and she smiles, pulling herself forward and opening her arms for a hug. Rory doesn't hesitate and goes to her, scooting closer and wrapping her arms around her, enveloped in her mother's scent. She can feel her weariness and it scares her because only Luke does this to her, only Luke makes her this way, and she doesn't know why.

"I'm scared Mom," Rory whispers, letting slip what's been causing her stomach to toss and heave since they left Stars Hollow.

She runs a hand over Rory's glossy brown hair and kisses her cheek.

"I am too hun. How else are we supposed to be?"

When they leave the airport, the sky is turning a dusty pink and orange, the darkness of night fading to light blues. Lorelai checks her watch and winces at the time.

6:30 am.

"This is unnatural," she says as they pause on the sidewalk to adjust their hold on their bags.

"What is?"

"The hour."

"No, it's quite natural for the hour to be six-thirty. It's unnatural to have passed the hour mark without fresh caffeine," Rory ends with a grin and she hits her forward.

"Of course, how could I forget? Seattle's making me lose my perception of reality. Must be the proximity to salmon," she laughs and notices that Rory is still, looking beyond her, her eyes bright and her mouth forming a smile she only shares with the familiar.

She takes a deep breath and turns. A shuttle passes and then she sees him, jogging across the lanes towards them.

Every cell in her body slows, shudders, and stops as he comes before them, a grin she hasn't seen in too long lighting up his usually somber, beautiful face. Rory throws her arms around him and he playfully puts her in a headlock, ruffling her hair. She can hear her laughter; the genuine happiness bubbling forth as she lightly hits him in the stomach. She can hear his deep voice rumbling and his hearty laugh and she can see how utterly blue his eyes are. She can smell him and she can see him, but she can't register what's happening. She's in shock, not unlike six years ago when he packed up and left.

Finally, he is facing her and she can feel his hands on her upper arms, drawing her fully towards him. She nearly collapses at his touch, at being so close to him after so long. Her eyes start to get heavy and her vision blurs, but she blinks her tears away because she wants to look into his eyes, she wants to catalogue and refresh every feature of him.

"Lorelai."

She watches his lips as he says her name and she knows that it would be too easy to kiss that mouth, to taste that delicious warmth. She wants to, God, she wants to, but everything is so hard now, everything is so tangled up in the past and she can't do what she wants, not when they are what they can only be: friends.

She can see the same feeling reflected in his eyes and she smiles sadly, shaking herself out of her shock to slip her arms around him and hug him. She is instantly pressed against his fine cotton blue polo, her mouth touching the golden warmth of his neck. She shuts her eyes and breathes in deeply, registering a new smell of vanilla and mint. She catalogues this and run her hands up his back slowly, feeling the same hard muscles beneath his shirt, the same heat warming the fabric.

Her hands go up his neck and into his hair and she can feel him sigh and grip her tighter. She is torturing them both, but she wants to be tortured, she wants him to be tortured. To touch him like this, her hands in his dark brown hair, her lips faintly touching his neck-to do this and not kiss him, not go home and greet him the proper way, it is a torture she can endure and one that she can inflict.

"I missed you," he says against her hair and her heart continues its shuddering but at a faster rate.

"I missed you too," she says huskily and he pulls back to look into her face, a light smile in on his lips.

"I am very missable. Didn't you know that?"

She smiles and sees Rory watching them with undisguised hope.

"I think we should bow now for our audience," she whispers to him and he glances over his shoulder. He clears his throat and steps back from her, bending down to take most of their luggage.

"Stop gawking and get over here, kid," he says, waving Rory over and she suppresses her smile grin as she comes, taking up the rest of the baggage.

"I just wanted to give you and Mom sometime to, uh, say hello," Rory says as they make their way across the street to his truck, a new big, black GMC.

"You got a new truck," she comments, throwing Rory a look.

"Yeah, I had to get one with better towing capacity," he replies as swings the suitcases into the back.

"Better towing capacity? Are you into that whole 'my tomato is 500 pounds. Thanks Miracle Grow!' thing?" she asks as she opens the door for Rory.

"No, I don't deal in tomatoes. Eggplant grow better and bigger, plus, there's a big Baba ghanoush festival held here every year, so I supply the eggplant," he deadpans and Rory and Lorelai look at him in disbelief.

"Actually," he climbs behind the wheel and starts the truck, "I got a boat. A sailboat to be a little more specific."

"What?!" Rory screeches and Luke laughs as he pulls out into traffic.

"A sailboat? When? Where? How big is it? Do you say 'Ahoy!' and 'aft' and 'matey'? Are you a yachtsman now? Does that mean you wear fitted polos, chino shorts, and plaid boating shoes?" Rory questions and Luke shoots her an 'are you crazy?' look before answering.

She listens as they talk about the boat, Rory asking him both serious and ridiculous questions and Luke answering her seriously and with a laugh. She loves to see them like this, the picture of what she wanted to have with her father, what she wanted Rory to have with Christopher. At least Rory has it with Luke. At least she will always have something from Luke.

"So I was thinking-while you guys are here, we take the boat out," Luke says and Rory turns to her, her blue eyes excited.

"What do you think Mom?"

She nods. "Sure, why not? As long as I can be Mary Ann."

She looks over her to Luke, who grins, his eyes still on the road and she knows it's going to be a hard two weeks.


	7. Prior

**November 1994**

It is two a.m. when he parks his truck outside of the diner. He turns off the engine and sits in the cab, his eyes scanning Main Street. He knows this street like he knows how many eggs go into the perfect omelet. He's grown up on this street. Town meetings, Doose's, Miss Patty's Founder's Day punch, the festivals, the inane Stars Hollow traditions-this is all he knows.

He looks across at the diner, at what used to be his father's lifeblood. He remembers helping his Dad unload equipment and stocking tools. He remembers teaching Liz how to use a screwdriver and then his Mom teaching them both how to treat a wound. He remembers his first opening and the last closing of the hardware store. And the first time he served a customer pancakes. Everything that has ever happened to him involves this bluish gray building with the plate glass windows he himself installed. The diner, the uncooperative grill, the assortment of plates, the ancient register, the line of mugs on his wall, his apartment upstairs-these are things that define him.

A rush of babbling interrupts his thoughts and he looks down into the seat next to him. Tiny little hands reach up and he takes them both in one hand, gently shaking them. The babbling turns into laughter when unbuckles the car seat and lifts the soft bundle into his arms. He opens his car door and steps out, hugging the little body to him. He goes to the truck bed, grabs the baby bag and two duffels, and makes his way to diner's front door, opening it, and hustling inside.

He turns on the lights and he sets the duffels and the baby bag and the little body shifts in his arms, big brown eyes blinking rapidly as they scan this new world. They look back at him, mildly bewildered, and he takes her into the stockroom, looking for the only mushy food he knows will make the world a better place- applesauce.

He finds the industrial size bottle, spoons some out in a little dish, sets it down on the counter, and sits on a stool, putting the spoon in her hand. She drops the spoon into the applesauce and he remembers that one-year-olds can't handle regular spoons, a lesson he learned when Liz and Jess spent Thanksgiving with him.

"Okay, little miss, let's see if we can do this," he says and picks up the spoon, scooping up some applesauce and holding it to her mouth. She looks up at him, her eyes wide and shiny and her bottom lip starts to tremble.

"Oh, no. It's okay; it's applesauce. You like applesauce. See," he tastes some of the applesauce, "hmmm, good. C'mon, babe," he places the spoon back to her mouth and she looks up at him, skeptical. He nods and she leans forward and eats the applesauce, smacking her lips together and scrunching her face.

He places the spoon to her mouth again and she shakes her head and says a definitive "No."

He sighs and puts the spoon down. "Well, what do you want to do? Sleep? Watch TV?" he asks, hoping that she chooses either of the two.

She shakes her head and reaches for the ground. He sets her down and she waddles to the baby bag on the floor and plops down on the floor next to it, reaching for the clasps. He leaves the stool and kneels down next to her, opening the bag. She starts pulling out pull-ups, baby wipe packets, Sesame Street sipper cups, trainer silverware, and toys that squeak until she gets her hand on a book. She holds it up to him, making bubbly noises and he takes it, lifting her up as he stands.

"_Goodnight, Moon_," he reads and she smiles at him, hitting the book.

"So you want me to read to you. Okay, I can do that," he says, taking the book and its owner up the stairs to his apartment. He pushes the door open and turns on the light, finding the space exactly as he left it-clean and childproof. He turns on the lamp on the bedside table and turns to the bed, wondering if she would be swallowed up in its hugeness. She yawns and he pulls back the covers, placing her down on sheets. He takes off her little boots and her little pullover and tucks her in.

He drags his armchair over to her side and settles in, watching her bright eyes start to fill with sleep.

He begins to read, periodically looking up to see if she had fallen asleep and each time he would be met with a bright stare. He continues, actually getting into the story of the little rabbit trying to delay the inevitable. He's on the last page when he looks up to see her sleeping, turned over onto her side facing him, her thick eyelashes soft on her cheek. _My eyelashes, _he thinks, and he reads the last sentence, setting the book down on the table and getting up to turn off the lamp.

He hesitates before bending down and giving her a kiss on the silky curliness of her head.

"Goodnight, April," he whispers before leaving the apartment, keeping the door open.

At the bottom of the stairs he feels he can no longer stand and he sits, everything coming down on him. All the responsibility, all the things he hasn't done and all the things that must be done and all his wants and all his needs-what are they now? The world he used to know and feel comfortable in has turned on his head and this new feeling of restlessness has taken residence in him. What must he do now? Who is he now?

All previous definitions are now nil-he is a father. He has a daughter. His responsibility is to no one else but her, and he has to be more for her, he has to do more for her. He has to be both father and mother. And he can't do it in Stars Hollow.

There is water on his cheeks and the taste of salt invades his mouth. The realization that he has to do this alone, completely in a place out of his element, scares him more than being the father of a one-year-old perfect girl he just found out he had a week ago. He wipes his face and breathes in deeply. He can't breakdown now. There are things to do and there's Lorelai.

God, Lorelai.


	8. April

**December 2009**

April,

I got your present. I'm surprised you even sent me one, considering I haven't spoken (written) to you since that first letter. I don't want you to think that my silence was because I was pissed. I was, but that wasn't why I couldn't correspond until now. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know you felt that way, probably because you never told me and mostly because I didn't. I still don't, but it doesn't matter.

Why don't we move on from that and onto something more interesting like the weather perhaps? It's the same old cold Christmas in Boston. I like it better in Seattle. I think I'll always like everything better in Seattle. Or Connecticut. I should tell you now that I'm thinking about applying to Yale. I visited the campus, I even talked to Rory and she invited me along to take a de-classified tour of the place. I don't have to say my parents are thrilled, Mom more so than Dad because she went to law school there. Dad gave me a speech about how I should try to get into Dartmouth because Sutton males go to Dartmouth. I told him Dartmouth could blow me. It was an interesting peach cobbler after that.

Strayed off the weather bit, but I couldn't help it. I forgot how much I wanted to tell you. I miss your voice and arguing about ascomycota, which is, hands down, more interesting than zygomycota any given day of the week. You keep me geeky April. Tell me about England. And if you meet any Jude Law's, don't tell me. I won't pretend that I'll be okay with it.

Thanks for the Chelsea Drogba jersey. I didn't know you used to listen when I talked soccer (or football, as the English say).

Paul.

P.S.- I like leaving it with just our names. It's much easier that way.


	9. Say

**November 1994**

_Part II - Hours Later_

Luke just hangs up from giving Caesar the day off when there's a knock on the door. He turns around, expecting it to be Kirk or Taylor, but it's her, standing outside, her coat pulled close around her.

He hurries to the door and opens it, standing aside as Lorelai rushes in, bringing in a whoosh of cold air.

"Why didn't you use the spare?" he asks her as he goes around to stand behind the counter, starting up a pot of coffee.

"I saw you and…I don't know, you've been gone a long time and I didn't want to sneak in here and scare you. Not yet, anyway," she answers with a smile and takes a seat at the counter, noticing that he didn't look back and smile at her like he would normally.

"Two weeks isn't a long time," he says, turning around to lean against the back counter.

"It is when you're the only one who knows what kind of coffee I like and how Rory likes her pancakes."

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. She recognizes the sigh combined with the neck rub as a sign that something is wrong.

"You know, you never told me why you left or where you were going, you just said you had to take care of some family business. And now you're back and you didn't even call me," she says, folding her hands and looking at him expectantly.

"I got back in after two. I didn't think you would want me calling you so early. Then again, I didn't think it was possible for you to be up before seven," he answers the latter half of her question dressed up as a statement. He isn't ready to lay it all out yet.

"I had a feeling you were back and I wanted to see you. I was worried."

"Well, I'm fine. Where's Rory? Over at Mrs. Kim's?"

She watches him for a second before answering, "Yeah, she's sleeping over. They are having a punk rock secret play date."

When he doesn't say anything, she knows something is wrong. She thinks that he would tell her if something happened to Liz or Jess, but he's tightlipped about his family and it took a mule team like effort just to get him to talk about his father.

"Is it Liz? Jess? Did something happen to them?" she ventures.

He stands up straight and shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. "No, they're okay. I didn't go to see them, but I dropped Liz a line. They're fine, that's how I know they're fine."

She notices his nervous movements and she, in turn, gets nervous. "Luke, can we not do whatever it is we're doing and get to whatever it was that had you out of town for two weeks at an undisclosed location dealing with family business that had nothing to do with your sister and her son?"

He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair, then rubs his arm. His blue eyes are dark to the point where they match the olive green flannel he has on.

"Two weeks ago I got a letter. From a Mrs. Nardini. In it she explained to me that her daughter, Anna, had died in an accident and left behind a one-year-old daughter, April," he turns to the coffee machine and checks its progress.

When he turns back to her, she's standing at the edge of the counter, her face pale.

"April is your daughter," she says softly and he nods.

"And Anna-"

"Anna was gone by the time you came here," he interrupts, seeing where she might go with that sentence.

She nods and digs her hand into her coat pocket, looking for something to fiddle with.

"So you went to?" she asks, staring at him, finding a lump of lint to roll between her thumb and forefinger.

"Seattle. I went to Seattle."

"How did that go?"

He reaches for a mug on the shelf and places it on the counter a little away from her hand.

"I went to the funeral. I talked to Mrs. Nardini. She contacted me because she couldn't take care of April alone. She wanted to give me the opportunity to be her father," he turns off the coffee machine and pours her a full mug, thinks about it, and pours himself a mug too.

He waits for her to say something but she continues to stare at him and he decides to continue on. "I asked her if she had any other relatives willing to help out, but she told me that I'm the only one who could help out. I could be April's father. And that's what I am now. A father."

He says 'father' softly, but it's loud in her ears, loud and much too clear. She can read in his stance and in his eyes that he's already accepting his new role; he's already able to shoulder the weight. He's already willing to sacrifice whatever wants he has to make his kid happy. She can see it and instinctively she knows what he's going to do. Anger she hasn't felt in a long time starts to make its way to the surface.

"Is she here?"

He takes a sip of the coffee. "Yeah. She's sleeping."

She reaches for the mug, about to take it up, but instead she pushes it aside and shakes her head, piercing him with her gaze.

"Why didn't you tell me as soon as you found out?"

He sets the mug down and rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"That's not an answer, Luke. That's a way out. We've been dating for a year for Christ's sake, I tell you everything and you find out you have a daughter and you don't know why it took you two weeks and an early morning journey to tell me?"

"I don't know what you want me to say to you. I don't know why I didn't tell you. I panicked when I found out and I had to go. I had to go," he responds softly.

"You had to go."

"Yes. Am I not supposed to go and get my daughter? Am I supposed to just leave her there?" he asks, looking at her strangely.

"No, no, of course not. But you didn't let me in. You could have called me while you were in Seattle and told me. You could have let me pick you up from the airport. You could have called me as soon as you came back and you know I would have been here at two a.m. You know that I would have the lights on, waiting for you. You had all these opportunities and I'm supposed to accept your lame ass 'I don't know'? Are you serious?" she replies heatedly, walking away from the edge of the counter, one hand on her hip, the other rubbing her forehead.

"You don't have to accept it, Lorelai, but that's it. I didn't purposefully go out of my way to lie to you," he says to her back.

"You say that, but you do something else. I don't know. I know you don't like to get into your personal life, but I _am _your personal life. Me and Rory," she says, her back still to him.

There's a beat or two of silence before she speaks again.

"Are you leaving?"

He takes a deep breath, an odd dullness settling in his chest cavity.

"Yes."

"Why?' she asks automatically, twirling towards him, her blue eyes crackling with anger.

"Because it's the right thing to do."

"The right thing? How in the hell is moving to Seattle the right thing to do?"

"Because it's April's home."

Lorelai looks at him incredulously. "And Stars Hollow can't be her home? She's one, I'm sure she's not that attached to Seattle and the salmon, Luke."

"Fine," he yells, "I just need to leave Stars Hollow. I'm restless Lorelai. I've never been restless before. I've never felt like somewhere else might be home, but when I went Seattle, I felt it."

She shakes her head, disbelieving. "But this town-it's your life. It's all you know."

"Yeah, it _is _all I know. And how sad is that? I never thought I would leave here, Lorelai," he looks around him, running his hand along the counter, "I never thought I would want to. But I have April and I have a chance to raise her in a different place, in _her _place. And I want to take that chance."

He meets her wide blue stare and she is startled by how sure he is, how much life are in his chameleon-like eyes. Did he ever have that life? Were his eyes ever that bright? Even with her?

She feels as though she is dissolving into nothing, her tongue is heavy and there is buzzing in her ears. Whatever anger she had before is slipping away to unknown places, leaving her cold.

"What about me?" she asks, still staring at him, seeing the sureness and the brightness flee his gaze and he loses some of his color.

"I have no clue."

"You didn't stop to think about how this might affect me, us? And what about Rory, did you think about her?" she questions, her voice thick with tears.

He is silent and he rubs a hand down his face, all vestiges of whatever was driving him gone. He is tired, he is tired and he is torn and he is unfair and he is everything he didn't want to be at this moment.

"Did you think I would give you a fucking slap on the back and say 'Good for you, Luke. I'm glad that you finally figured out your life, nevermind the fact that you are in a relationship with a woman who cares for you, deeply, who has a daughter that reveres you'? Did you?" she snarls, that anger she thought had slipped away springing back and with a vengeance.

"God, Lorelai, it's not easy for me, okay? Don't trivialize-"

"Trivialize? Trivialize?" she scoffs, tears running down her cheeks, "I'm not the one who's ready to up and leave just because they have a daughter and they feel restless. I could understand that if you had no obligations, but you do. You have one to me and to my daughter."

"And what about the obligations I have to me and mine? Why can't I, for once, do something for me?" he yells.

"Because it stopped being just you a year ago, that's why! You wanted a commitment and I gave you one. I gave you me, I let you in!"

"Bullshit! You haven't let me in!"

"What?" she slams her fist down on the counter. "How can you stand there-"

"It's real easy to stand here, Lorelai. You're talking about letting me in when you'd dump me at the first chance of Christopher coming back? The guy calls, you would think Frank-fucking-Sinatra's on the line!" he cuts her off, his voice ringing and bouncing off the walls.

The quiet is so thunderous that he takes her cold mug of coffee and tosses it carelessly into the sink just so that the cracking of the plaster can break it.

He places his arms on the sink and leans on them, his head hanging between his shoulders.

"Whatever it was between you and me," he says finally, his voice low and weary, "it could've been good, but like you said, I shut you out. And I shut you out because I know that I'm just a placeholder. I was content with being just that until April. I was content just to smell you in the morning and make love to you at night and hear you in the shower and fix your house and cook you breakfast. I told myself that it's okay if you still held out hope for Christopher; you should, for you and Rory. But I went to Seattle and I saw what my life could be like."

He straightens and faces her, amazed that he hasn't rushed around the counter and recanted every word he's been saying as sees her face pink and wet and her hand trembling over her mouth.

"If there's anything in the world I want for you Lorelai, it would be to not settle, not even with me. I was wrong to let this go on so long, I was wrong to let it end over this situation. I was wrong, even though I love you. I'm sorry, Lorelai," he says, taking a step towards the end of the counter when a sob breaks through her fingers.

He's about to go to her when there's a startled cry and for a second she thinks it's her, but he is at the staircase, looking up, every muscle tense.

He looks back at her, caught between needing to comfort the two of them, but he has already chosen.

"Go, go ahead. She's probably scared," she gets out, her voice strangled, but he is already up the steps and she can hear him in the apartment, shooshing and cooing, and the crying dies down.

When he comes back down the steps, she is gone.


	10. Inflammation

**December 1994**

It's been an odd weekend in Stars Hollow. Rory has never seen rain in December and it's a mystery to her, a mystery she is uncomfortable with. She doesn't like mysteries. Her life seems to be full of them nowadays.

Like why there hasn't been any town festivals in a month. Like why Mrs. Kim is being so nice to her. Like why her Mom is making an effort to make meals, which, after the first week, are less burned and more edible.

Like why Luke is now no-name.

She tried asking her Mom why Luke came by when she wasn't here and took home his toolbox and all she told her was that they shouldn't talk about Luke anymore. She would have pressed further, but her mother fixed her with a working version of the death stare.

Since then, there hasn't been any mention of Luke in the house or in her mother's presence. She hasn't even tried calling him. She's been too scared to, but today, her fear isn't as strong as it used to be.

She gets up from her window seat and pads into the hall where the phone is. She picks it up and looks at the keypad. She looks over her shoulder, the sneaking feeling that her mother is watching her keeping her from dialing the numbers. She shakes her head and goes into her room, pulling out the green polka dot rain boots he got her when she told him she didn't have any and an oversized blue raincoat from her closet. She slips the phone in the large pocket and goes to the foyer, grabbing her matching blue umbrella.

Rory opens the door and steps out into the cold, wet, gray world. Pulling the raincoat hood over her head and opening the umbrella, she begins her journey to the center of her universe.

It is by chance that Luke looks up from taping a box in time to see her blue umbrella bobbing up and down as she walks/skids towards the diner. He drops the tape and goes to the door, swinging it open just in time for her to stomp up the steps.

"Rory! What are you doing here? Is your mother with you?" he asks, looking out behind her.

"No, I came by myself because, well," she looks up at him, her bangs wet and her doll blue eyes peeking through them, upset, "I came because Babette said you were moving and I probably won't get an opportunity to say goodbye."

The truth as to why Rory risked her mother's angry, and even worse, disappointed, looks suddenly makes her feel sad. She's felt this sadness before, whenever she and her mom see her father off at the bus terminal. She would hold her mother's hand and feel the stiffness in her mom's hand. But she won't be seeing Luke off. One day she'll want eggs with extra bacon and he won't be here. He'll be gone.

Her nose starts to itch and she knows she's about to cry. Luke must've known it too because he puts an arm around her shoulders and leads her to her favorite table, sitting her in a chair and taking the one opposite her.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you myself, but I would never leave without saying goodbye," he says to her.

"But you're going. And you're not my Dad, so you don't have to call me and Mom, you don't have to come back," she says miserably, wiping the back of her hand across her nose.

Luke smiles sadly. "That's true, but I want to call you and your Mom, I want to come back and visit. And I will."

Rory's face lifts a little and she sits up a little straighter. "You will?"

"Of course I will. You're one of the best and brightest things in my life, Rory. And you're the only one who can beat me in random facts, how can I not?" he says with a grin and she grins too, her sadness lifting.

"Is it true that you're going to Seattle?" she asks.

"Yep, it's true."

"Can you tell me why?"

She braces herself for him to tell her that it's for him to know and for her to not find out, but he sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, because…hold on, I'll be right back," he says and gets up, going upstairs. She waits, wondering if it's something serious and devastating. What if he brings down a book about tropical diseases and tells her that he's seriously sick and the only treatment is in Seattle? What if it's something good, something good like he has a girlfriend in Seattle? Then that's not good. At all. Her Mom is his girlfriend.

She is weighing both scenarios when she hears him slowly coming down the stairs. There's another sound too, a gurgling, giggling sound that reminds her of baby commercials. She sees Luke hunched over a little, looking down, a smile on his face and she follows his line of sight to a cute little girl in jeans and long-sleeved purple sweater, little brown pigtails peeking out from beneath a purple beanie. Luke swings her off the bottom step and sets her onto the ground, making sure she's steady before letting her hand go.

The little girl looks at her and claps her hands, smiling.

"Rory, this is April, my daughter."

Rory stares at the still clapping little girl, who is taking tentative steps towards her. She slowly stands, not sure what to do or what to say. She feels odd, out of place.

She takes a tentative step towards the little girl and bends, holding out her hand. "Hello April, I'm Rory."

April looks at Rory's hand, then at her face, and laughs, giggles, taking Rory's finger and tugging it. She finds herself smiling and she reaches out to tug one of April's pigtails.

"I like your hair. Did you do it?"

April shakes her head and puts a finger in her mouth.

"I like her," she says, standing up but maintaining her grip on April's hand.

"She didn't run from you, so she I guess she likes you too," he says, smiling.

"Where's April's mom?" she asks, wondering if he's going to Seattle because he has a new family.

Luke's smile vanishes and he goes behind the counter, lifting a blue bag onto the counter.

"April's mom- she died. So I'm taking care of April now," he re replies, taking out a Beauty and Beast sippy cup and going to the back.

Rory waits until he comes back to say, "I'm sorry."

He looks surprised and he nods, setting a bottle of apple juice on the counter. "Thanks," he says giving her a quick, sad smile.

She nods, unsure of whether or not Luke's grief is the kind of grief she's seen in movies or read in books. He doesn't look any different; then again, he doesn't look the same.

"Are you hungry? I can make you a burger or some chicken fingers or pancakes or whatever," he says, switching the subject and pouring the juice into the sippy cup.

"Pancakes," she answers automatically and April starts to pull her forward, reaching up to the counter.

"Pancakes it is. Hold on, I'll get her," Luke says, coming around to take April.

"No, it's okay, I can lift her."

Rory lets go off April's hand and lifts her up so that she's sitting on her arm, her face close to hers. She climbs onto a stool and reaches for the sippy cup, placing it in April's outstretched hand. April takes it and looks at her, a smile on her face.

"Aple joose," April says, her voice small and squeaky.

She nods, very much impressed. "Yeah, apple juice. Good."

"Goood," April mimics, taking a drink from her cup, her eyes never leaving her face.

"I think you have a new friend," Luke says with a grin, and goes to the back, turning on the grill.

She nods down at April. "I'm your friend, Rory."

April moves the cup away from her mouth and places it to Rory's mouth.

"Ory."

When Luke brings her back home it is well after seven and it is bitterly cold. The Christmas lights are on and the jeep is parked in the drive. He pulls up in front of the walk and stops, turning off the engine. Three pairs of eyes watch the lighted house with varying degrees of interest. Silence and a certain heaviness that wasn't there on the way here settle over them.

April starts to babble and wave her hands, breaking the silence.

"She likes the lights. Mom must've of put them up when she got home," Rory says, staring out through the window. Mom had put up the lights- Luke used to put up the lights. It's really happening- Luke is going and they're going to put up lights without him.

She is about to cry, so she opens the door and jumps out, grabbing the bags of food Luke prepared for her and her mom in addition to the pancakes her made for her lunch.

"Thanks, Luke, for making me pancakes and for not chewing me out. Bye," she looks from him to April and nods quickly, "bye April."

She closes the door and walks up the walk, her tears making the snow and the uncovered dirt blur together.

"Rory."

She turns around and Luke is there, holding her umbrella.

"I didn't get to say goodbye," he says.

"I don't care, just go. Leave. We're already doing okay without you, see?" she points to the Christmas lights.

"Rory," Luke says, coming forward to hug her, but she shakes her head, grabbing the umbrella from him.

"Just go! Leave! I don't want to see you! Leave!" she cries at him.

"I'm sorry, Rory."

Luke sighs and gives her one last look before walking back to the truck. Rory watches April wave at her as the truck pulls away from the walk and she chokes back her tears until the red taillights disappear from view.

She runs up the steps and reaches for the door handle but the door swings back and her mother is there, hugging her, rubbing her back as she sobs.

"He's leaving Mom," she cries, "he's really leaving."

"I know hon," Lorelai whispers, her heart breaking for her daughter and for herself.


	11. The Spy Who Came In From The Cold

**A/N**: The next chapters I post will be an arch and they will be linear in time, although not character consistent. The title of this chapter is taken from the novel by John le Carre of the same title. Enjoy.

March 2008

Stepping out of the taxi, she looks up at the apartment complex. His new address is fancier and bigger and there's a gold plated intercom system with his name probably on it.

She pays the taxi driver and walks up the steps to the front glass and mahogany doors, the address of the building written in grave amber writing on the glass. She scans the slots on the intercom system for his name and there it is.

Jess Mariano- PH 6.

"Penthouse?" she whispers and steps back to look up at the top floor. Jess might be up there right now, sipping a neat scotch, sitting in his leather chair behind his dark oak desk, sifting through manuscripts, scribbling on the margins in green ink.

She smiles at the image, wondering if it's too far off base.

She goes to the intercom system and presses the button next to his name.

"Yeah?" his voice comes out, clear as crystal and her stomach lurches.

"Jess Mariano, I have a delivery for you. Messenger service," she suddenly lies.

"Who from?"

"Uh, a place called Truncheon?"

She bites her lip and wishes that she had gum to sound more city and less Yale alumni now journalist.

"All right."

There's a loud buzz and one of the doors click open. She hurries and pushes it open, walking swiftly to an elevator.

She presses the 'PH' button and leans against a cool steel handlebar at the back of the car. There's a plant in the corner of the elevator and a small LCD screen displaying the latest breaking news from CNN. She finds herself thinking she's in the wrong city, going up to see the wrong guy. This is something Logan would live in, not Jess. Potted plants and LCD screens in elevators with marble floors so polished she can see the scuff marks on her leather pumps is to Logan as cul-de-sacs/bungalows and barely kept grass is to Jess.

The doors slide back and she steps out onto a plush carpet in an airy hall. Across from her is a dark paneled door with PH 2 in gold brass lettering. She goes down past PH 4 to PH 6, which is hidden in the corner and is the last of the PH's.

She stands before the door, clutching her bag strap. She should've dressed differently. A long coat and heel boots and a nice skirt with leggings or a cute dress would be more appropriate for pleading her case rather than a worn pea coat, baggy Carlisle sweater, jeans, and her old boots.

She knocks the doorknocker twice before hearing the locks turn quickly and she takes a fortifying breath just as the door swings open.

He looks like he just got up. His hair is sticking out at odd angles and he is wearing blue plaid pajama pants, a thin gray cotton sweater, and thick blue socks. His cheeks are dark with stubble and he's rubbing the back of his neck tiredly, but his brown eyes are attentive and he doesn't seem surprised.

"Well, if it isn't Lorelai Leigh Gilmore pretending to be a messenger to break into my building," he looks at her with a derisive smile and she blushes, cursing herself for being so idiotic and for blushing.

"You saw me?" she asks as he moves aside to let her in.

"Yeah," he answers as he closes the door, "that's one of the perks of living in a place like this. I get to see you trying to lie. It's very becoming, by the way."

She doesn't answer because her mind is overwhelmed with her surroundings.

Large bay windows on one wall let in enough sunlight to illuminate every corner. The living room is huge and decorated in earthy undertones, the chocolate sofa set reminding her of his eyes. A little sitting area is sectioned off near the dining room, which is on a raised dais and consists simply of a round table made of polished oak and glass and four dark wood high back chairs. A vase of chrysanthemums sits in the middle of the table and she wonders, with a little green curiosity, who would give him flowers.

He has books everywhere. On tables, on the sofas, piled in a corner, next to a medium sized flat screen, even on the staircase leading up to the second floor.

"You read much?" she asks, going to the chocolate love seat and picking up a book.

"Not nearly enough. You finished drooling over my place yet?" he grins and she purses her lips.

"I wasn't drooling, I was surveying." She turns around slowly, her eyes flitting over photographs and paintings, over the view, the living room, the ceiling, the miniature tree in the corner, the books, and then to him.

"It's better than my cubicle."

"I like your cubicle. It has character, which you'll need a lot of if you're going to be Hersh."

"Amanpour."

He lifts a shoulder. "Amanpour it is. Are you hungry? I'll need some food if we're going to keep this up."

He is already walking away from her so she has no choice but to follow, her puzzlement at his ease growing. She rounds a corner and stares around in amazement.

It is so like the kitchen of the house Jess showed her in Seattle that for a moment she thinks she is back there, sitting on a curved wood and steel stool at a granite island watching him make her a grilled cheese sandwich on a $3000 stove and oven set up.

"Wow, did you do this?" she asks amazed.

"Luke did. He didn't do much though because the last owners were modernists and decked out the kitchen. I got lucky," he answers, peering speculatively into the refrigerator.

"Okay, I can do PB & J, grilled cheese, or leftover Thai."

She takes a seat at the concrete and glass countertop, setting her bag next to her.

"Thai and grilled cheese."

He nods and takes out everything he needs.

She watches him take down a frying pan from overhead pot rack and set on a burner, turning the knob to medium. He gets a spoon and knife and proceeds to put butter in the pan and more butter on the bread.

"Paula Dean would be so proud," she comments as he adds more butter to another slice.

"Well, she does say that everything's better with a little butter. Of course, 'little' being figurative in this case."

He unwraps some wax paper and puts thick slices of cheddar onto four slices, slaps their other halves on top and transfers two to the pan, the sandwiches sizzling as soon as they touch the pan.

The economy of his movements enthralls her. When he moves, he's reaching for something or putting something away or flipping sandwiches. When he isn't reaching or flipping he's standing still, his head bent over the frying pan, the spatula ready. He's always ready for something when he's not already doing something else. That was the first thing she noticed about him besides his looks- his poise.

The strong desire to be beside him propels her off of the stool and next to him by the stove, looking over his shoulder.

"Anything I can do?"

He smells like grilled cheese with a hint of vanilla. She breathes in deeply again.

"You can stop trying to inhale my shirt and heat up the leftovers," he says, amused, and flips a sandwich. Her face gets hot and she grabs the containers of food and looks for a microwave, finding it near the sink.

She heats up the food while he does the rest of the sandwiches and together they dish out their food. He takes some beer from the fridge and they sit across from each other at the island.

Rory starts eating straight away, shoveling chicken Pad Thai into her mouth and midway through chewing taking a massive bite out of grilled cheese sandwich half.

Jess watches her with a carefully hidden smile and hands her a napkin when some Pad Thai falls short of her mouth.

"Tank ou," she chews and wipes her mouth, looking up at him quickly. He is staring at her.

She stares down her plate, leveling out her chewing.

"How long ago was it that you were re-introduced into the Western civilization?" he asks, his eyes devilish as he eats some panang beef.

"How long ago was it announced that you were Rockefeller's heir?" she shoots back, taking a bite out of her sandwich, her blue eyes playful.

"About a month ago," he answers with a full-blown smile and her stomach melts. God, _that_ was what was missing between her and Logan. The stomach melt. Eight years ago, when she first felt it and afterwards, when they were left hanging this way and that, she thought that it was something that was tied to love. If she felt it again, it was love. She never felt it again until now.

"I think about that night," she says, putting down her half eaten grilled cheese and becoming serious.

His eyes change to unreadable and he moves around a piece of beef before eating it.

"You do?" he asks casually and she knows this is going to be like standing on a rock and throwing a sharp stick into the ocean, trying to catch a fish.

"Yeah. You do too. You think about it all the time. That's why I get the bi-annual try, right? Because you think about it too," she says, figuring that the best way to do this is to do this head-on.

He drinks from his bottle of beer, still looking at her and picks up a sandwich.

"You might be right, but what does it matter?" He bites into the sandwich, the crispiness of the bread sounding in the brief silence.

"It matters because I need to know."

He chews thoughtfully. "Because you need to know what? That ever since I saw you there, sitting at the bow of the boat, your book open but your eyes on the lake, you have been a constant in my life?"

His voice is so nonchalant that she momentarily assumes he's being dry, but he is looking at her with shuttered eyes, his telltale sign that he's being completely serious.

Her liver and kidneys are in her throat and if she swallows she'll be able to breathe, but she doesn't want to breathe. This is what he's been feeling for almost eight years now. She knows what it is and it hurts her, but she does not swallow. She needs to feel this too.

He gets up, depositing his empty dish into the sink and coming back with a bottle of water.

"Why are you here?"

"Luke gave me your new address. He's convinced that I need a push in your direction, so he pushed."

"And you came."

She holds out her hands like she's presenting herself.

He breaks the seal off the water and drinks in a long gulp. He wipes his mouth when he's done and gives her a long look.

"Okay, let's try this again. Why are you here?" he asks shortly.

She doesn't want to speak now or she'll say everything, so she turns to her bag and swiftly withdraws a black marble notebook. She hands it to him and he quickly flicks his gaze over the cover, his eyes coming back to hers, surprised.

"I told you to keep this."

"I did. For revisions. I didn't want to come across as a cold bitch when you publish it. Because you will publish it."

She watches his face turn into one big smirk and she can almost mouth the words he's going to say next.

"You get published in the New Yorker and now you're some great talent?"

"Yeah. Have you been published in The New Yorker?"

"No, but I've been reviewed by the Times."

"I've written for the Times."

"I know."

That simple 'I know' puts an end to their pissing contest and he and his dark eyes once again unsettle her.

"Well, stop staring and read the damn thing," she exclaims, irritated.

He grins his lopsided grin and motions for her to follow him. She takes her plate and her beer and walks with him out to the dining room, sitting with her back to the balcony doors.

As soon as he sits he begins to read. She finishes her meal and for a while she sits and observes him, the placidity of his face breaking whenever he grinned; the shadow that would come whenever he rubbed his stubble, indicating he read something unpleasant.

She gets restless and gets up, exploring the open space, flipping through a digital album on a long table near the staircase. There were many people she didn't know and places she's never seen in most of the pictures and then pictures of April and Luke started trickling in, then him and Luke and April, then Leslie, and the last picture was one of her, one she's never seen. She's laughing at the camera as she opens a fortune cookie and it's raining, the background is full of umbrellas of all different sizes and colors. She looks very young and very happy and, looking closely, she looks like she might be in love.

Her pancreas joins her liver and kidneys and she turns away to the living room, going to the books that are stacked under the sofas and between the sofas and on the coffee table and in the corner. She finds six crates behind one couch and uses them to organize his books, going by genre.

She looks back at him and he's still reading, so she hunts for the remote for the television. It turns out the thing needs to remotes to operate, so she spends a couple of minutes trying to turn it on and a couple more minutes devoted to turning the channel. She surfs through the first one hundred, leaving it on USA for a Law and Order: SVU marathon.

She is midway through her third episode when he sits next to her on the love seat. He doesn't say anything and she isn't about to press him for input so they watch the rest of the episode in silence.

The opening credits for the next episode starts to roll when he reaches over her and takes the remote, hitting mute.

She doesn't dare look at him, her eyes glued to the soundless screen.

"You don't come across as a cold hard bitch."

She doesn't look at him.

"And if you want to publish it, you have my consent. It's a great story. Our story. How I pined for you for seven years and you went on with your life while periodically thinking of me."

"I never wanted you to know how much I love you, that's why I went on," she says softly, glancing at him.

He is watching her closely and seriously, his eyes so dark in the falling light.

"I made it work with Logan because I love you more than I thought I could. I've seen how that kind of love can strangle parts of yourself, how it can break you down," her gaze goes back to the television screen, but she's not seeing Stabler being thrown through a Plexiglas window- she's seeing her Mom's strained smile, the bitter sadness darkening her light blue eyes whenever she made coffee.

"I'm not Luke, Rory. I didn't run and I'm not going to," he says, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his chest, his warmth warming her cold fingers.

Her liver, pancreas, and kidneys slide down her throat and resume their usual positions. She releases a long breath, her anxiety and worry and fear deflating like a balloon gently pricked with a needle. She can look at him steadily now and in the descending darkness she can see everything so clearly, especially his face.

"I'm not my mother. And I love you Jess. I don't want to run anymore."

"I know you're not. And I love you Rory. I don't want you to either."

To feel his arms around her is like experiencing the warmth of home after being out in the cold for so long.


	12. Greetings

**June 2000**

Part II- Home

The drive from the airport is a short one and she isn't prepared for when he pulls onto a shady residential street and parks in front of a brown two--story house with a green door and red mailbox. The way to the door is a series of stone slabs stylishly set in an upwardly sloping pattern. Trees that dot the front yard sway in the cool morning breeze and from where she's sitting she can see a body swinging lazily in a hammock tied between two trees off to the side of the house.

Her heart nearly stops when she sees an arm dangle over the side, a long, graceful brown arm.

"Luke, I think Mom's having a Driving Miss Daisy moment," Rory says with a grin as she waves her hand in front of Lorelai's face.

"I do not wear floral Barbara Bush dresses," Lorelai responds, instantly turning her attention to Rory, who is climbing out the car after Luke, throwing her arms out wide.

"Wow, so this is Seattle? It feels so different. It feels like solid ground and smells like salt water."

She leans against the hood and gazes at the house, noting the person still lounging in the hammock. It looks like a family house, where fathers pick their kids up for a game of helicopter and raspberries, mothers find juice packets under their kids' sheets and give them bubble baths, and parents argue about taxes and smear cake batter on each other's faces.

A familiar heaviness enters her chest and she shakes herself, telling her mind that she's too old to wish for this and wish for that. She'll be going to Europe for a journalism program and then she'll be at Chilton, slaving away. In three years she'll be graduating and that following semester she'll be in college, hopefully at Yale. Her life is as she wants it to be and she wants to enjoy the next two weeks without thinking about what she doesn't have.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

Rory looks over to her mother, who is out of the truck and leaning against the passenger door, her hands shoved in her back pockets, watching her.

She nods and they grin knowingly at each other, silently making promises to have what they couldn't have for these two weeks.

"Did the two of you pack the entire contents of your closets?" Luke calls from the back and they laugh as they go to help him unload.

"Why, yes, of course. I couldn't reach my POD in time to pack that up. That's where the real clothes are my friend," Lorelai says cheerily as she hefts a duffel bag over her shoulder.

"It's a wonder they didn't have to land to refuel the plane," he grumbles and hands Rory the lighter luggage.

"Oh, they wanted to, but I smiled, put on my strappy heels, and pleaded, no, begged that we must make it to Seattle or me and my poor daughter will be met by a raving, ranting diner owner who will march to the cockpit and proceed to give a ten-minute harangue on the importance of landing on time," Lorelai talks as they shuffle up the stone walkway, Luke rolling his eyes and Rory feeling like she's ten again, absolutely ecstatic at being around the two most important people in her life.

"I do not rave," Luke mutters and Lorelai lets out a guffaw.

"Rave, sir, is what you do and you do it most spectacularly. Remember that one town meeting when Taylor wanted to have all the Stars Hollow eating establishments serve authentic Irish food and have elaborate green and gold decorations for St. Patrick's Day?"

Rory smiles wide and Luke hangs his head. "Really? Out of all the town meetings, you have to choose that one?"

"Remember when you took Taylor's gavel in the middle of your level 5 rant, which, by the way, constitutes a rave, and hit it every time you said 'Irish'? I especially loved it when you told Taylor that Ireland went through a severe potato famine and asked him if he would like to know what a 'no air' famine would be like. It was so non-Connecticut of you," she laughs and he can't help but smile and nod fondly.

They are almost at the door when there's a smoky 'hello' from the side. They turn and there is the owner of the long, graceful brown arm.

She is tall, almost as tall as Lorelai in heels. Her face is doll like and delicate, her eyes are a smoky brown, and her skin glitters in the morning light. She has on an old Blondie dark blue shirt and khaki shorts displaying legs Lorelai always thought were exclusive to models born in Russia. Her dark brown hair is swept back in a long, thick ponytail and as she approaches, it swings lazily back and forth.

"Hello, I'm Leslie. You must be Rory," she extends a hand to Rory, who takes it with a shy smile.

Leslie turns her smoky eyes to Lorelai and extends her hand. "Lorelai. I've heard so much about you."

Lorelai reaches out and shakes the warm, dry hand.

"I hope it wasn't anything too obscene," she says as their hands drop and Leslie shrugs.

"Unless coffee and fat consumption is obscene to you, then no."

The four of them stand looking at each other, Leslie smiling to herself as she raises her eyebrows in response to Luke's glare.

"Do you live here?" Rory asks, regretting the question as soon as it slips past her lips.

"Rory! What are you, six?" Lorelai exclaims, about to apologize to Leslie when she shakes her head.

"No, I don't live here. I used to work for Luke and now I'm his business partner. We're friends without any benefits, if that's your next question," she answers frankly and Luke clears his throat nervously when Lorelai's face goes pale then red with embarrassment.

"Uh, maybe we should go inside instead of standing out here with Nordstrom on our backs," Luke suggests and Leslie easily plucks the keys from his front jean pocket and quickly steps up the rest of the stones to unlock the door.

She holds the door open for them as they come inside and the possibility that Luke might have found someone is set aside as Lorelai sets her luggage down in the foyer.

The inside of the house is gorgeous. Ceiling to floor sliding glass doors let in light to the spacious living room and equally spacious dining area. It is airy, no walls separating the rooms from each other, so the color scheme of light olive and natural colors flow unheeded.

"Wow," she breathes.

"Yeah," Rory agrees.

"I know I've done good when the two of them become limited to monosyllables," Luke says to Leslie. She gives him a warm smile, remembering how much he worried about the house when he found out they were coming.

He smiles back at her and notices Lorelai looking at him intently. He quickly bends and picks up the bags he set on the floor.

"Come," he inclines his head towards the stairs, "I'll show you to your room. I hope you don't mind sharing."

"As long as you supply me with some industrial earplugs, I'm game," Rory says, picking up her luggage.

"Are you implying something child-that-I-bore-for-nine-months-and-went through-incredible-pain-to-bring-into-this-world?" Lorelai asks in a mock serious tone.

"I thought you took the drugs?" Luke interrupts as they start to ascend.

"I did, but it still hurt. Have you ever had anything pushed out of your penis the size of big head here?" Lorelai jokes as she nudges Rory.

"First off, wrong. Overall, wrong and I'd rather not think of anything being pushed out of my penis."

"God, this is a conversation no one should ever hear yet my auditory canal is being flooded with it," Rory mutters as they hit the landing and start up another short flight of stairs.

"Hey, after you guys get settled we can all go pick up April and head out for an early lunch," Leslie calls up the stairs and all three of them halt, the lighthearted mood shifting to one of moderate discomfort.

"Sounds like a plan," he replies and they climb up the rest of the steps in silence.

The upstairs is all cream and dark gold wood and Lorelai peeks into a room as they pass, a burst of color catching her eye.

It's a little girl's room, the walls painted lavender, an old-fashioned brass bed with a gauzy sparkling canopy positioned parallel to a window overlooking the tops of trees.

She looks up the hall to see Luke and Rory talking, setting luggage down in a room at the far end. They don't seem to be paying any attention to her, so she opens the door a little wider to stand in the doorway.

Christmas lights line the room and there are embedded ceiling lights that she imagines must be multicolored and can chase the monsters that reside in the closet away. There's a faded pink floral dresser with all sorts of bits of colored paper, scissors, glue sticks, lip smackers, jewelry, and juvenile toiletries scattered on top.

Shoes with funky laces and clothes litter the floor and there's a rainbow book bag with its contents spilling out next to a metal desk that has all the things seven year olds should have if they have a desk: crayons, construction paper, an etch-a-sketch. There's a globe with silly cartoon pins stuck in it and multiple yarn dream catchers hang from the desk lamp.

There's a jungle bookcase with a collection of books rivaling that of Rory when she was seven taking up half a wall. Knick knacks line the shelves and she spots several pictures of a little brown haired girl in glasses, swimming, playing in a garden, riding around in a teacup.

Something sticks in her throat when she sees a picture of Luke and the little brown haired girl taken from behind, feet dangling over the side of a dock, Luke's feet in the water. He is pointing to something on the fishing rod the little girl is holding and she is looking down at whatever he is pointing to. The sun is setting, the sky a brilliant spectacle of light caught between day and night. It is a beautiful picture.

He comes up beside her quietly and looks over her shoulder into the room, trying to see what she is seeing.

"It smells like vanilla cupcakes in here," she says, her throat hoarse.

"April must've snuck some up here to eat while she reads under the covers." He smiles when she looks over at him.

"She thinks she's clever, but her weakness is sprinkles and they have a pension for sheets."

Lorelai grins. "Most little girls do. Rory did. She used to try to put them on everything, even steak."

"I remember."

They stare at each other, unspoken words flowing between them.

"Yeah, you do," she sighs and turns away, walking towards the room at the far end of the hall, Rory already sprawled out on the bed, almost asleep.

There's another room, but the door is shut and a poster of Kurt Vonnegut adorns the front. She is curious, but she is tired.

"Lorelai."

She stops in front of the room.

"It'll be okay."

Her shoulders sag and she's glad she is facing away from him because if not, she would be crying and telling him she's not brave enough to meet his kid, she hasn't changed that much in six years.

"I know it will," she says without turning and enters the room.

Downstairs, Leslie is leaning against the stone island, writing in her day planner and eating a pear.

"Has the sun cooked your brain?" Luke growls at her as soon as he enters the kitchen.

"No, it has not."

"Then what the hell was that?"

"What?" she asks innocently.

"'Friends without benefits', taking my keys like that, suggesting we all go out to lunch after picking up April-that. What was it?"

"Oh, that," she straightens and flips through her planner, "was me being a friend."

He sits on a stool next to her and reaches for a pear in the fruit bowl on the island.

"Making Lorelai and Rory uncomfortable is something a friend does?"

Leslie sighs and takes her glasses out from her pockets, putting them on and fixing him with a no nonsense glare.

"I'm going to say this and I'm only going to say it once. You can't insulate parts of your life from people that might make them feel uncomfortable. April is your daughter and they have to meet sooner rather than later. And I'm not going to be put in a situation where I am meant to feel like I'm encroaching on private property. I did what I did because you have to learn that nothing has to change just because people from your past are visiting," she finishes and he sighs, biting into his pear.

"It's complicated, Leslie."

She watches him as he takes another bite. "Did you tell them that Jess is here?"

He doesn't answer her and she shakes her head, moving away from him to get a glass.

"For a guy who hates complications, you sure know how to make them Luke."

She pours some water in a glass and comes back to the island to sit across from him. They look at each other and she shakes her head again, trying hard not to smile.

"Stop," she says, drinking from her glass.

His eyes widen and he sets down his pear. "What?"

"Looking at me like that will not stop me from silently admonishing you."

"Will it get you to be patient with me?"

She takes off her glasses and grins. "You're lucky it's my most solid virtue. Now start thinking of where we're going to eat lunch. And call Jess."


	13. Peachy

**June 2000**

Part III- Lunch

After some debate, Luke decides that it would be better for everyone to meet at Leslie's teahouse. It's small, quiet, and she said she would make muffin tops, to smooth things over with April should something go wrong.

Leslie leaves to pick up April, Luke determining that it would be better for April that way.

He waits an hour until Lorelai and Rory come downstairs and tells them of the latest developments, including the fact that his nephew, Jess, is living with him for the summer, maybe indefinitely. He studies their faces closely, searching for any negative reactions, but they just shrug and look at each other, smiles breaking on their faces.

On the drive to the teahouse, Lorelai asks questions about April, at first hesitantly, but then steadily and with growing interest. Rory stays quiet, her eyes taking in the departure from residential to city in the matter of minutes.

They manage to find a parking space directly across from the teahouse, which looks like a little English cottage planted between an opening comic shop and a rough looking paper store. They dash across the street and into a full teahouse, the muted murmur of college kids, businessmen and women, and regulars drowning out the melancholic tones of Cat Power.

Luke looks around for an empty table and finds his daughter, sitting in a chair at a table by the window; a plate of muffin tops already half-eaten and a wide mug probably filled with peach and cinnamon tea before her. She is looking down at her lap, her bumblebee wings sticking up.

He points her out to Lorelai and Rory and they follow him to the table, scooting through pulled out chairs and standing customers.

"April," Luke says and she looks up, her bespectacled face lighting up and he lifts her up into a hug. She gives him a kiss on each cheek and he gives her one on her eyebrow and tweaks her nose.

"Daddy," she laughs and then she sees Lorelai and Rory, standing awkwardly in front of them.

Uh, April," he sets her down, "this is Rory, you met her before, when you were little."

Rory waves and April waves back.

"You have a pretty name, Rory."

Rory smiles and Luke is about to introduce Lorelai when Lorelai steps forward.

"I'm Lorelai. I've heard a lot of good things about you, although your Dad forgot to tell me that you have wings."

April reaches behind her to grab a wing and blushes. "Oh, I went to a sleepover and we had to dress up like our favorite insect. I chose the bee because airdymanatically they're not supposed to fly."

Lorelai raises an eyebrow. "So you like to do the impossible huh? Like eat a whole plate of muffin tops by yourself?" she inclines her head towards the plate and April's already big brown eyes grow bigger behind her glasses.

"I was supposed to wait, but I couldn't help it, I love muffin tops. I still saved two, if you like them. And I didn't drink all the tea, there's still some in the pot," April rambles and Lorelai grins, hearing Luke in the little voice.

"I wouldn't be able to wait either. Bees do have to eat. After all, all that impossible flying must really be tiring," Rory says, taking a seat at the table and reaching for a muffin top, stuffing one in her mouth.

Lorelai takes a seat next to her and pours herself some tea in one of the multicolored oversized cups already set on the table and takes a tentative sip.

"Whoa, this tea-good. I never thought I would say that. Do you know what this 'whoa' tea is?" she asks April, who looks up at her father and then back at Lorelai.

"Peach and cinnamon. Leslie made it specially for me because I like peach ice cream and I can't say cinnamon five times."

"I can say it five times. Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnaminamon."

April climbs back onto her seat, laughing at Lorelai. "You said cinnaminamon."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did," Rory says under her breath, but loud enough for April to hear as she picks up a thin, long, leather book that says 'Selection' on the front.

"I'd like to see you say 'cinnamon' five times," Lorelai challenges and reaches for a muffin top. April gives her one and Lorelai gives her a bright smile.

"Fine, I will. Just let me wet my tongue and observe the tongue twister champion do her thing," Rory answers and takes a drink from Lorelai's cup.

"I'll be right back, I'm just going to see if Leslie can bring by some more sugar and fat death traps for you guys to devour," Luke says and they nod, all of them grinning.

He goes to the kitchen, spotting Leslie amidst the bustle in an apron, her hair covered and flour on her face, making batter.

"I thought you said it was going to quiet," he says as soon as he's close and she goes to one of the many stoves to pull out about six dozen muffin tops.

"Yeah, well, I lied. Why? They can't hear each other over the noise?"

"No, they can hear each other just fine. In fact, everything seemed to go fine. Which is rare because things never go the way I want them to go."

Leslie calls for someone to check the tea and a young kid comes bounding in, going to the stove and lifting lids, taking a little spoon and tasting each pot, sometimes shaking his shaggy head.

"Who's that, Davis?" Luke asks, grabbing an oven mitt and taking out sheets of pear and cheese scones.

"Yeah. Kid has a real knack for what the tea needs, doesn't need, if it's been steeping too long or not enough, blah blah blah."

"I can't believe you actually found Davis some work. I thought for sure he found his calling as a pain in my ass, ordering seven kinds of chicken salad."

"Now he's a pain in my ass. Why aren't you out there?" she asks, stopping to look at him.

"They're talking and laughing and saying 'cinnamon' five times fast. I said I would bring back some sugar and fat death traps," he responds as he places the scones on a cooling rack and grabs a plate to stack with muffin tops.

"I do love how you call what I make for a living 'sugar death traps' while you sell rare steak and chicken fried in cholesterol."

He rolls his eyes and sends out plates of scones, muffin tops, and other pastries to the front.

"Speaking of which, Jess called me after you called him. He said he wouldn't be able to make it. He has a date."

Luke gave up a long time ago trying to follow Leslie's 'speaking of which' because most of them are completely unrelated to whatever is being discussed.

"He has a date? At 10:30 in the morning?"

Leslie shrugs and hands him a plate of what he came in the kitchen for. "He said he has a date. It's probably in the public library in the lit section with a woman named Charlotte. Leave it alone for today. Here," she hands him a pot of tea, "go be with your girls."

He leaves the kitchen and stops behind the display window of cakes and scones and muffins to watch them. Lorelai and Rory are sitting on either side of April now, holding a brochure out in front of them. April is pointing and talking animatedly. Lorelai has her arm around April's shoulder and is pointing at things too, saying things that make April giggle and Rory look at her in mock exasperation.

Something breaks inside of Luke as he watches this scene. It could have been this way, but he took that away. And this will only last for two weeks.

He straightens up and delivers their tea and food, sitting with them and soon making jokes about turtles in the aquarium.


	14. Cognition

**June 2000**

Part IV- A morning

Rory turns over and is instantly awake, the sun streaming in through the curtains. Her mother is still asleep, facing her, her mouth a little open and drool seeping on to the pillowcase.

She carefully maneuvers herself off the bed and grabs her camera off of the side table. She takes the flash off and aims it at her mother, pressing the capture button rapidly, biting back her laughter. Man, she can see her mother's face when she gets these developed.

She laughs silently to herself as she sets the camera down and goes downstairs, not surprised to find April up and watching cartoons and Luke is out on the back deck, painting on sealant.

She gets some cereal and joins April in the living room.

"Good morning, kid."

"Good morning," April says absently.

"What are you watching?"

"_Transformers_."

Rory watches Optimus Prime and Megatron go head to head.

"You like this? Robots fighting each other?"

April lifts a shoulder in a classic nonchalant Luke move. "Not really, but me and Jess watch this every morning."

Rory stirs her spoon in her cereal, wondering about this Jess person. Over the past four days she's heard mention of him, past by his room, caught a fleeting glimpse of him once when she got up for a glass of water and he was leaving. She knows that, according to Luke, he's a hardworking, well-read, loner smartass.

"So, you and Jess watch _Transformers_ every morning?" she asks, setting up the groundwork for investigative questions.

"Yep. And in the afternoons, when he has the time, we watch _The Wild Thornberrys_. I like that show. He does a really good Donnie," April answers, screwing up her face as Optimus transforms into a bus.

"Why isn't Jess here to watch _Transformers_ with you?"

"He works for Daddy and at the library so he doesn't get to watch cartoons. Finally," she picks up the remote and switches the channel in time for the opening credits of _Batman Beyond_.

Rory finishes her cereal as the two of them watch the new Batman fight some crime and Rory leaves April to get more cereal and investigate the mystery of Jess from another, less distracted source.

"Hey, Luke," she greets him, stepping out onto the back deck. Looking up at the sky she can see that's going to be a cloudy day.

"Hey yourself. Your mom up yet?" he smiles, dropping the paintbrush in the can.

"No, she's still asleep. It must be a really good one," she says as she eats a spoonful of Fruit Loops.

"Why, is she drooling?" he asks, walking over the painted spots and looking up to the sky.

"Yeah. I won't ask."

"I wouldn't tell you anyway."

They grin and Luke starts packing away the cans of sealant.

"So where would Jess be on a day like today?" Rory asks lightly, hoping he wouldn't read too much into the question.

"Well," Luke rubs the back of his neck, "Jess would be at the diner, being a grumpier version of me, if you can believe that. After that, he likes to take the boat out to "warm her up". As long as he doesn't drown himself, I'm fine with it."

Rory drops her spoon in the bowl. "He can sail?"

"Yeah. He read the books, took a course, now he thinks he can whip my ass in a race. I let him indulge in whatever fantasies he wants if it keeps him from moping around."

He pounds shut the cans and lays them on a folded piece of tarp where the grill sat on the grass.

In her mind she sees a tall manboy, his black hair flapping in the breeze, his white shirt brilliant against the blue backdrop of sky and water, a long muscular barefoot leg propped up on a rail. His khaki shorts are frayed and he is leaning against the wheel, gently turning it one way. He is close enough for her to put a hand on his shoulder, and she does, but he doesn't turn around. His flesh is hard, like stone, and Rory suddenly realizes that he is a statue.

"Rory!"

She shakes her head and nearly drops her bowl. "Huh? Wuh?"

Luke is standing in the yard, waving his arms. "Are you here? I was telling you that we'll probably go out today, show you guys the Sound."

"Today? Sailing? I thought we were going into Fremont?" She doesn't want to go sailing, not after that vision.

Luke gives her an odd look. "Okay, we'll hold off on the sailing. Maybe tomorrow. Or we can go see the boat tonight."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Rory nods. The glass doors slide back and April sticks her head out.

"Daddy? Lorelai's awake and talking about lack of service and inhospitable conditions. She said that Motel Shafterson has a better variety of no coffee and still no coffee. She also said that I look like a really good pastry."

Luke leaves and a few seconds later Rory can hear him trying to explain, for the sixth time, how to make the coffee.

"But Luke, it's too early for me to press buttons."

"I think you're pressing mine just fine."

"Coffee doesn't come out of you."

"Why don't you drink some orange juice?"

"What?! Are you mad? I do not function on nutritious. I function on caffeine. Don't you know what Folgers says?"

"No, I don't know what a mass producer of poison says, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

"'The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup'!"

There's a pause.

"April, thank you for starting the coffee machine. You've saved us all from the beast."

"April, my angelic spring, my burst of pure goodness! You and me, we can topple Folgers, we can build an empire of coffee!"

Rory leans against the glass door, drinking her fruity-flavored milk, listening to morning.


	15. Siouxsie Lo

**June 2000**

Part V- The Boat

It has been a week and he has managed to avoid Luke's house and its temporary guests. He came close to being seen by the girl, Rory, one night, but he was out of there before she could say anything. He would've said something if he wasn't quicker, if he wasn't driven to stay as far away as possible.

He serves up one last 2 a.m. special and flips the 'Taking Orders' sign to 'Closed'. He and Dan, the other guy Luke hired to run the late shift, break everything down and start cleaning up, waiting until the last customers leave to start stacking chairs. He saves the grill for last, making burgers and heating leftover food to split between the two of them before scrubbing the kitchen.

They clean in silence, listening to the mix tape Dan made chiefly for the late shift. They nod goodnight and he watches until Dan gets in his car and drives away before locking the diner.

He could've called Leslie to come pick him up and drive him to the marina, but he feels as though he's being unfair, dragging her out of bed when she has an early day every day, not to mention being unfailingly conscientious and taking Lorelai and Rory wherever they want to go when Luke has to be at the diner.

He shifts his pack, looks up both sides of the street and takes a deep breath, smelling the salt off the water. It smells nothing like New York over here; no exhaust from rattling taxis, no wet sewage stench drifting up from the grates both on the sidewalk and in the street, no hotdog carts and pretzel stands luring you to pay $3.25 for something that should kill you straight away, no musty city smell. It is only when he came to Seattle that he found out what fresh air can do for a person's lungs, it is here that he grew an appreciation for bodies of water. He loves New York, it has a part of his heart, but Seattle has taken over a major piece.

He glances up at the sky and isn't surprised to find the stars hidden. He sniffs the air for rain and is relieved to smell only salt and a faint whiff of cold. He decides to forego the scenic route to the marina for the shortest, the heaviness of his legs and fogginess of his brain telling him he needs sleep.

The walk is longer than usual and by the time he hits the marina, he has broken his cardinal rule and is humming to keep himself awake. He walks to the farthest end on the dock and approaches the Siouxsie Lo from the stern. He hops aboard and uses the grab rails to move towards the bow. He is about to go below when his eye catches a figure sitting against the gunwale, long hair billowing in the cool wind.

He is about to tell the figure to fuck off when a pale beam of moonlight comes streaming through a break in the clouds, washing the forward bow in silver blue light. The figure, now illuminated, becomes a girl in a blue cardigan, a white shirt visible from beneath it, in jeans. She has her legs pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, a book occasionally hitting her calf. Her fingers are long and slender. He's seen those fingers before, in moonlight like this, circled around the refrigerator handle in his uncle's house.

"Hey," he calls out and her head whips around, her eyes finding his in an instant. He inhales quickly, completely caught off guard by the bluest eyes he's ever seen. He wants to say that they are ice, glaciers, but they are warm and curious. Her face is small and is cast in shadows, but he can tell that she is stunning.

He is caught.

"Hey," she calls back, her voice steady and mild and rich.

"Do I know you?" he asks, already knowing that he does.

"We haven't met, but I'm Rory Gilmore, I'm staying with your Uncle. I would get up to shake your hand, but I think I have less of a chance of vomiting if I don't."

With that one sentence, said so easily and without pretense, he finds himself experiencing a rush in his ears, a thrumming in his chest, a rumbling in his stomach.

"Yeah, I'm Jess. What are you doing out here at," he checks his watch, "a quarter past three in the morning?"

She lifts her shoulders and turns her face back to the water. "I wanted to meet you, so I stayed here all day."

He is thrown off balance by her statement and it takes him some time before he rights himself to speak.

"Why would you want to meet me?"

"Because you're an enigma. I don't like enigmas, especially when we're connected in some way," she replies casually.

He makes his way to the gunwale and sits beside her, taking off his backpack and setting it between them.

"So your mother let you wait out here, in a strange place, and wait for me, a guy you don't know from Dick?"

She moves a strand of hair from her face. "Your uncle lets you work the late shift at the diner, walk some miles to the marina, and sleep on the boat."

He finds her response irritating in that he can't come back with anything unless he wants to sound juvenile.

"What if I was some crazy drunk? You should be careful with your blasé attitude."

She looks at him with a smile that tells him that his concern touches her. "But you're not. And I am."

He dares not offer her a smile and she sees that he won't so she goes back to watching the water.

"Besides," she says after a few minutes, "Leslie and April are bunking it out down below, so I'm not completely alone."

He shakes his head, smiling to himself. "You're a good liar."

"I'm not, I'm just good at omitting certain facts."

He nods. "You hungry? I got some food from the diner."

He unzips his pack and takes out a big paper bag with grease spots on the side.

"Got a burger in there?"

"A few, and some fries. No shake though, sorry."

"Good, then I would have to call you Ms. Poppins."

She smiles at him and he hands her a burger wrapped in paper.

"Thanks," she murmurs before setting her book down, unwrapping and biting into the burger.

"So your mom and Luke- they on a date or something?"

She snorts. "Or something," she replies in between taking another bite.

He doesn't delve into that response and eats his burger. He watches her eat out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she has had food in the past twenty-four hours. She is halfway done with her burger, and he makes them big. She pops a fry in her mouth as she chews and he grins. She glances at him but he averts his eyes to the book next to her feet. _Welcome to the Monkey House_.

"'You're hell to get along with'," he quotes and she laughs.

"The most romantic story besides "EPICAC"."

"I think "EPICAC" wins out. A computer writes the greatest love poems of all time for a woman that can never be loved by a computer the way humans need to be loved. It's sad, exactly how I like my romance."

She raises an eyebrow. "_Jane Eyre_ or _Wuthering Heights_?"

"_Jane Eyre_."

"_Jane Eyre_!" she exclaims and laughs again.

"What?"

"Jane Eyre is one of the most optimistic classical romances ever written. She gets with Rochester and they have a kid. How is that sad?"

He finishes off his burger before answering her. "I said I like my romances sad, not completely maudlin and fraught with gothic tragedy."

She tips her head, conceding the point.

"Luke said you were a reader," she says and he lifts a shoulder.

"It keeps me thinking."

"And you have music sense too."

He eats another fry. "Luke said that too?"

"No, the name of the boat told me. I don't think Luke knows of Siouxsie and the Banshees."

He contemplates his next response, but there isn't one.

She looks at him, her eyes fully on his face.

"This is going to sound completely random, but why hide out on the boat, away from where you sleep, away from Optimus Prime and Nigel Thornberry? I've been roped into watching the Thornberrys with April since you went into hiding," she adds when he gives her a confused look.

He finds it odd that he can look into her eyes so effortlessly and not need to fight the urge to look away. He feels nervous, yes, but it's a nervousness he's comfortable with. There's something about her that strips away his excess layer of bullshit and he's only known her for fifteen minutes.

"I guess it's because I felt I had to give Luke the room. I know how much you mean to him; he talks about you, and even less about your mom, which means he most likely loves her. I wanted to give you guys room, that's why I "hid" out on the boat. And if April told you I do a really good impression of Donnie, she's lying."

She grins and sticks out her hand. "I'm Rory Gilmore and I really would like it if you stop giving us room."

He takes it, getting goosebumps from the contact. Her hands are warm and dry but soft.

"I'm Jess Mariano and I think I can do that."

They shake and she reaches into the bag for more fries.

"I have a dossier on you, Mr. Mariano."

He lets himself laugh, something he hasn't done in days and it sounds dusty, as though he should have shaken it out first.

"Really? Care to share?"

"Sure, let me just get comfortable," she scoots up until she's leaning against the main mast, bringing the bag of food with her. He scoots up next to her so that his arm and shoulder touches hers and he can feel wisps of her hair tickle his ear and neck.

"First off, is it true you're afraid of the Troll?"

He groans. "I'm changing April's name to 'Mouth'."


	16. Stop the Rocking

**June 2000**

Part VI- Another morning

The sunlight on her eyelids causes her to stir and she sits up, rubbing a hand across her face. An elbow butts against her waist and she opens her eyes cautiously to look down.

Jess is there, partially on his back, his face turned towards the dock. She shifts her body so that she is angled towards him and his elbow comes to rest on her thigh, her knee sliding under his hand. The sunlight hits him directly in the face, but he doesn't move. She takes this chance to see if what she thought last night was true, if he was…she can't find a word for what he was, but what he is now has her attracted.

He has floppy, thick dark brown hair brushed over his forehead. He has a faint tan and thick eyebrows. His eyelashes are thick too and rest on his relatively smooth cheeks. His nose is a little crooked, but it is a fine nose that leads to a very fine mouth that smiles crookedly, as she remembers from last night. He is good looking, especially with his strong jaw sprinkled with stubble. He's a year older than her, she knows that, but he seems much older, as though he's lived longer.

She remembers the way he stood looking at her, easily rocking with the boat, his body seemingly braced to the deck. She remembers the way he answered her questions without any hesitation, sure and confident. She liked his city accent and his drawling voice. She has never met someone as unshakable as Jess. It intrigued her.

Her gaze moves to the rest of him, noting the loose fitting khaki slacks and navy blue t-shirt with grease stains. He works out, she can tell from the piece of shirt that's hiked up displaying a washboard stomach and the musculature of his arms.

When she looks back up to his face his eyes are open and staring at her steadily, the light showing that his eyes are not as dark as she thought they were. Instead they are olive brown and they are alert.

"I'm sorry,' she says quickly, getting up hastily.

The boat rocks and she grabs onto the main mast, her stomach tossing.

"Are you okay?" he asks her, pulling himself up onto his feet slowly and stretching, seemingly undisturbed by the choppy movements of the boat.

"No, I think…I think I'm going to be sick," she says, her voice wavering.

He moves towards her and takes her hand. "Just hold on to me and I'll get you to the dock."

She grips his hand and detaches herself from the main mast, her other hand clutching his upper arm. They move slowly to the side of the boat and he leaps up and takes both her hands to lift her easily off the boat and onto the dock.

She stands still for a moment, but she is still rocking in every direction and the burgers, fries, and cookies she had from that bag start traveling up her esophagus.

She rushes to the side and empties the contents of her stomach, mentally saying goodbye to the best burgers she's had in years.

When she's done she sits back on her heels and he is there, rubbing her back and holding her hair back from her face.

"Have you purged yourself sufficiently yet or do you think you've got a few more left in you?"

She shakes her head. "No, I think I'm good."

He takes her chin and turns her head in his direction. He gives her a lopsided smile and her heart starts thudding. Is he going to kiss her? What?

He takes his sleeve and wipes the sides of her mouth, rolling up the sleeve when he's done.

"You had stomach juice on your mouth."

They stare at each other and she becomes aware of all points of contact. She is about to say something when there's the sound of familiar grumbling and then the smell of her mother's perfume.

"Rory?"

She doesn't even have time to turn her head and say something when her mother comes rushing beside her, crouching down and blocking Jess, her hands surrounding her face.

"Rory, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I threw up my spleen, though. Can you live without your spleen?"

Lorelai pulls her up and rubs her back, motherly concern in her eyes. "I think so. If not I'll get Luke to fish it out of the water."

She smiles and Luke comes up to her, concerned too. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Boating and I had a fight and I lost. But Jess helped me out."

Luke looks behind them at Jess and Lorelai turns around, seeing Jess for the first time.

"I did what I could," he says, looking at them, his face closed.

"So you're Jess. I'm Lorelai Gilmore," she reaches out a hand and he looks at it.

"I know. And I have grease on my hand and vomit on the other, but it's nice to make your acquaintance."

Lorelai lowers her hand with a shrug and Luke sighs. "Jesus, why does it always have to be difficult with you?"

Jess brushes by them and goes aboard. "I'm going to wake up Leslie and April, ask her to take us home, and you and Lorelai can go sailing. Sounds good to you?"

Luke looks thoroughly confused, Lorelai is looking at Jess curiously, and Rory is looking at everything but him, trying to figure out this feeling in her stomach.

"Yeah, it sounds good. Do you have any soda and crackers down there for Rory?" Lorelai answers and he stares at her a moment before nodding.

"Yeah. I'll be right back," he says, ducking below deck.

All three of them stand on the dock silently, looking at each other.

"So that's my nephew, Jess," Luke grumbles.

Lorelai looks down at her. "You like him?"

She does her best to hide her reaction to that question and states indifferently, "He's okay."


	17. Forks

**June 2000**

Part VII — Night before leaving

Lorelai sits out on the deck, watching through the trees the moonlight rippling on the dark water. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, sinking into the background. Her mind fills with the sound of the water lapping and a boat motoring slowly down the lake. She can hear the wind rustling the leaves, the twinkling of the chimes that April hid in the backyard, the muted laughter of Rory and Jess as they watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the clatter of dishes as April and Luke wash and dry them, the sound of her heart beating steadily.

The sounds change into smells and they are easy to discern if she concentrates. There's the smell of rain with fat, heavy drops. There's the smell of her perfume, peaches and lilies. There's the herb garden, mint and basil dominating the scents. And the trees-their woodsy smell underlying all the other smells.

Opening her eyes, she is looking straight ahead at a mostly clouded sky and a softly lit burgeoning landscape of various types of plants and slate walkways. She has gotten used to this sight, as she sits out here every night, waiting for Luke and their midnight conversation. Tonight though, she really sees, taking pictures of every inch with her mind, filing away every sound so when she's back in Stars Hollow and it's a particularly lonely night, she can come here again.

She looks back at the past two weeks, glossing over meeting Jess and Leslie for the first time (both introductions not exactly memorable), going to Pike Market and flirting with the fish guys, much to Rory's chagrin; eating at 14 Carrots almost everyday, watching Luke as he steers his boat, the nervous excitement she got from having him stand behind her, his hands over hers as he teaches her how to steer; trolling on the Fremont Troll, Jess and April taking her and Rory to the Space Needle and then shopping, spending the day with Luke, April, and Rory at the Waterfront, getting lost in the ID with Rory and Leslie, haggling in Fremont with Rory, sitting on the rocky strip of beach and watching the orcas on San Juan Island. She settles on how it felt to walk back into Luke's diner and order the same thing from six years ago, this time with April sitting on one side and Rory on the other, April chatting away. It was a surrealistic feeling, one that she felt comfortable having.

The whole experience-being here in Seattle with Luke, meeting April for the first time and instantly loving her, observing the budding relationship between Rory and Jess, finding a friend in Leslie- has shown her how easy it is to relax, to fall into something without second guessing it. Her sense of unease mixed with guilt was washed away the second Luke pulled up to his house and she finds that it is slowly bubbling up from the corners of her mind, coming like a rising tide as the night draws on, bringing closer her hour of departure.

She thinks of the upcoming month. Rory will be in Europe for the summer courses at Cambridge, courtesy of her grandparents; the inn is booked solid, plus the four weddings she has to supervise, and then there's the plumbing problem she figures she can fix herself. She'll be alone and the house will be quiet and the days will be long. The nights she doesn't even want to think about. She hasn't been alone for an extended period of time since Rory and she's glad she has these short two weeks to reflect on, but she does stupid things when she gets lonely, like call people who she shouldn't call.

She is so submerged in her thoughts that she doesn't see Luke until he sits beside her at the deck table, placing a cup of tea in front of her. She gives him a blank look and he sighs playfully, getting up and coming back with a mug of coffee.

"I thought you liked tea," he says to start off the conversation and she sniffs her mug.

"I like it every four months. I filled my quota at Leslie's tea house, which, by the way, was a very prudent investment, Mr. Danes," she says in a high class New England tone and he shrugs his modesty.

"Leslie bugged me about the idea for years and she's a smart young woman, so," he takes a sip from the cup of tea he took from Lorelai.

"Besides," he adds, "it's always good to have a lawyer who knows you as a business partner. They can talk themselves in and out of everything and anything."

She raises an eyebrow. "Care to share exactly what that statement means?"

He says nothing and she smiles.

"Just tell me one thing- is it embarrassing?"

He thinks for a moment. "Yes. It involves a bottle, a Swiss Army Knife and urine."

She bursts out laughing, an image forming in her mind. "Please, Luke, tell me, I promise I won't laugh too loudly."

He shakes his head, grinning. "I already said too much."

"Spoil sport."

"Sourpuss."

They laugh, the both of them thinking of her plan to go clubbing. He sulked, but ended up getting four numbers and an ass grab while drunken frat boys or boring businessmen looking for a second wife were constantly hitting on her.

"That was a good night," she says as their laughter dies down.

"Yeah. I never felt so reassured," he says smugly.

She bites her tongue from asking if he called any of those numbers, her curiosity on whether he has met anyone since moving to Seattle flaring up.

"Where did you learn to dance like that?" she asks instead.

"Like what?"

"Almost non-spastic."

He cuts her a look and rolls his eyes. "I do not dance spazzy."

"Not that night, no," she grins sweetly.

"Not any night. Fine," he stands up, setting down his cup and reaching out a hand to her, "get up. I'll show you."

She smiles up at him. "Luke, really, I don't want you to prove to me that you can dance spazzy."

"Lorelai."

"Okay, okay, don't have a spaz attack," she mockingly soothes, placing her hand in his and gasping when he pulls her up and into his arms, then pushes her out and twirls her, bringing her back to him and holding her close with one hand on her back and the other gripping her hand loosely all in one fluid motion.

"Whoa," she breathes as they sway.

"Exactly."

She squeezes his hand, her nails digging into his skin. "Your smug tone makes me feel violent."

He chuckles, his arm slipping around her waist and he rests the side of his head against hers, his stubble brushing her temple.

"Hum something," he whispers and the back of her throat starts burning. Memories of them lying in bed, her laying on his back, humming in his ear, watching his smile spread and feeling the vibration of his laugh through her chest rush through her head and she moves her hand out of his to wrap her arms around him.

She clears her throat and starts, then stops, and then starts again, humming and soon softly singing 'No Myth'.

When she finishes he leans away from her, searching her face. "Your voice hasn't changed. The song has, but not your voice."

She lifts a shoulder and he leads her back to the table. Sitting, she takes up the mug and takes a long drink, her unease becoming stronger. She forgot that things are not so simple anymore, she can't sing and make it better.

He is still looking at her, his eyes probing her.

"What?" she asks, a touch of irritation in her voice.

"Something is in your eyes that wasn't there five minutes ago. Talk to me," he replies.

She shakes her head, the reason for her unease and guilt jumping into her throat, his soft 'talk to me' luring her into bearing what she tried so hard to forget and had succeeded in accomplishing these past two weeks.

"I can't," she says, looking from him to his teacup.

"Just tell me."

"Why? Why should I tell you anything?" she asks angrily, hoping that he would get distracted by her sudden shift in mood and let the matter drop. Instead, he stares at her calmly, leaning back in the deck chair.

"Because I'm your friend."

She wants to scream at him that she hates that word. She hates being a 'friend' to him. What she feels for him is far from what friends should feel for each other. She wants to punch him and tell him that she has dreamed about him for six years, she has imagined them and she wants a 'them', an 'us', even if it means leaving her home.

But these are things she can never say to him. They're friends. Friends don't say they are in love.

She sighs, putting her hand to the side of her head. "It's about Christopher."

His expression doesn't change, but she can see his eyes darken with emotion and she waits for him to shout at her, to tell her to go to hell, to say that he loves her still, to say something to which she can apply, "You left, I moved on."

But he doesn't say any of those things.

"What about Christopher?" he asks just as calmly as the last time he spoke.

She fidgets in her seat. "Well, uh, I, me and Christopher we, uh, what I mean to say is that, well, we've been seeing each other," she stumbles.

He lifts an eyebrow. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't it? It's what you've always wanted, for Rory and for yourself."

She stares at him, completely boggled. "You actually sound supportive."

He shrugs, taking up his teacup, "Whatever and whoever makes you and Rory happy, I'll support."

"Even if you hate it? Even if you want it to be you who makes us happy?" she asks, stepping onto the minefield of their past.

He hesitates, the cup to his lips. Something dark passes over his face and he looks away from her to the backyard.

"Yes," he answers, his voice hard.

Every muscle in her body quivers at his short, revealing response and she reaches out to grasp his arm, his flesh hot and hard.

"Then why can't you? Why can't it be you?"

He sets his teacup down and looks to her, his eyes masked.

"Because I don't know anything about us, Lorelai. I don't think I ever knew, but I think we make better friends than something else," he answers honestly, putting a hand over the fingers that grip his arm.

"Luke, we make great friends. Awesome friends. Laverne and Shirley can't hold a candle to us," she says with a smile while he slants an eye at her.

"Okay, Matt and Al, how about that?"

"Matt and Al. Am I supposed to know who Matt and Al are?"

"No, but it's fun to see you try to figure out what the hell I'm talking about."

They grin at each other, her hand now in his.

"I think we would make a better 'us' than 'friends'. That's what I think," she says quietly, looking straight into his eyes, watching the color shift into the most sea tossed blue she's ever seen.

"You say one thing and you do another. You say you want me, that maybe you might even love me, but I leave on a Friday afternoon and Christopher is answering the phone Saturday morning," he says frankly, dropping her hand to get up and go to the deck railing, his back to her.

She should have been prepared for that, she remembered yanking the phone from Christopher's hand and saying his name, the loud buzz of the dial tone sounded in her ear, but to have him say it out loud like it's one of those facts of life-it shocks her, leaves her staring at his back, not comprehending that it's his back she's staring at.

"I'm not going to pretend that it didn't hurt, that I wasn't furious- I was. I was, Christ, I was pissed. But I was on the plane, April gazing wide-eyed out the window, pointing to things and chattering, and I knew that I did the right thing- pushing you away when I did," he states plainly.

"I spared the both of us this drama of Christopher and what he means to you, what he'll always mean. He'll always be there to jump and you'll always let him. I loved you," he breathes and she stands, the pain and the truth of his words settling under her skin.

"I love you still," he looks back at her, the awful sadness clear in his gaze, "but…that's the rub. There's always a 'but'."

She opens her mouth to tell him that he's wrong, everything he thinks and says is wrong, but the words are buried too deeply under the weight of his candor.

She stands next to him, close enough to feel the warmth from his skin and smell his scent. A long time ago, simply putting her arm through the crook of his arm and leaning on his side would make the storm clouds dissipate and right an errant world.

Now she can only stand beside him in regrettable, bruising silence and intuitively know that she cannot come back, she can never come back to Seattle or to him. He has resigned himself to thinking them hopeless and she can't bear herself like this again.

After a period of silence, she says blandly, "I'm going to try with Chris. For Rory's sake."

He doesn't do anything that indicates he heard her except shift most of his weight onto his other leg.

"And for yourself," he finishes for her, still looking away.

"I won't call anymore," he says and a part of her heart turns to dust.

"If that's what you want."

"It's what's best. I'll stay out of your life."

"And Rory?"

"Rory's your daughter- she is your life. I'll stay away."

She marvels at how dry their voices sound when the air is heavy with moisture and finality. They sound like they're ironing out a contract for oil in Iraq. He gives, she takes.

"So this is it?" she whispers, allowing some thread of turmoil line her voice.

He looks at her finally, his blue eyes clear and shimmering. She moves closer until their bare arms touch.

"This is it."

And then rain tears through the black sky, falling at last to the earth.


	18. Last Minute

**December 1994**

"Lorelai, it's me, Luke. I'm at O'Hare taking a connecting flight and they are two calls from my row and I had to call you."

Pause. A sigh.

"I don't know if this is a good idea or not, calling you, but I had to. I can't leave without saying goodbye, even if it's through the phone and you erase this message. Please tell Rory that I'm sorry. I know I hurt her and I'm sorry. Tell her, if you don't erase this message, that she'll be the first person I call when I get to Seattle. And tell her that Caesar will make her unlimited pancakes on the house whenever she wants them. Yes, it's bribery, but, well, I love her."

Pause. Background airport noise.

"Lorelai, I already miss you. I miss not seeing your face, even if you have murder on the mind. I miss hearing your voice and your laugh and I know, I caused this, I made this happen, but I have to. I just have to. And I love you. So I'm up shit's creek."

"Now boarding rows 21 to 11."

"Shit, they're calling my row. Look, I don't want to end it like this, with this phone call. I know this sounds completely ridiculous, but can we try to be friends? It's something we never tried to be. We were an 'us' before we were friends. I hope we can be. I hope-"

"Hello, Luke."

"Who's this?"

"Christopher."

Pause.

"Christopher."

"Yeah, uh, don't worry about Rory, she's fine now. And Lorelai is sleeping, but I'll make sure she gets the message."

Pause.

"You do that. And do me a favor."

"And what would that be?"

"Don't screw with them."

"Noted. You'll miss your plane."

Footsteps approach and there's scrambling for the phone.

"Luke! Luke!"

Dial tone.


	19. Literal

**July 2007**

She sits next to him in the dark movie theatre, wondering if there's irony in the fact that she spent $7.50 to see the Transformers movie and she hates the damn show. But then she thinks of why she paid the $7.50 in the first place: Shia LaBeouf. And because Paul won the argument on whether mollusks is a phylum with four separate classes.

She looks over at him distractedly popping popcorn into his mouth and taps him on the shoulder.

"Hmmm?" he says, his eyes sliding to her before flitting up to the screen in response to a huge crash.

"What are we doing?" she whispers.

"Watching the best action sequence ever."

She rolls her eyes. "I know, but what are we doing?"

He takes his eyes from the screen and stares at her. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about whether this is a date or not."

He squirms in his seat, his mind going through dozens of responses that might placate her until the movie is over.

"Um, what would you like me to say?"

She narrows her eyes at him and he knows that he's going to miss the rest of the movie. Christ.

"You're a real ass, Paul. A real, literal one. Thanks."

She gets up and pushes her way out of the aisle, stomps down the steps and disappears behind the corner that leads to the exits. He finishes watching the sequence, figuring he has about five minutes before she cools off and calls her dad.

He is out of the theatre in three minutes and spots her by the arcade, watching some kids play DDR.

"April, you're the most melodramatic girl I've ever met," he begins when he comes to stand next to her and she flicks her hair, telling him she's pissed and her mind is closed on the subject.

"Okay, it was a date," he says after the five-minute mark passes and he sees her hand slip into her pocket.

She grabs his arm and leads him away from the arcade to a bench and pulls him down next to her.

"Why couldn't you just ask me out like other guys? Is it really that hard to say to the girl who's been your friend before you were hot that you want to go to see Transformers, which, by the way, is NOT what you take a girl to see on her first date, outside of the context of 'just friends'?"

She is staring at him like she would a frog in a dissecting pan and he runs a hand through his longish sandy blonde hair.

"Well, because, you're my friend. How do you ask out the girl who's known you before you were hot?" he smiles and she scoffs, lightly shoving him.

"Whatever. Just, I don't know, call me up and tell me that you want to take me out. And then you'll come to my house and my Dad will stare at you and you'll start sweating and blab to him minute by minute details of our four, no, three hour date until I come to rescue you and the only thing my Dad says is 'Have a nice night you two' before eyeing you and we wait a couple of minutes before Jess drives up and drops us off at the aquarium and from there we go to Leslie's and then we go home and I give you a peck on the cheek," she rambles without a hint of subtlety.

"We've been to the aquarium thousands of times," he says, picking on the only thing he knows he can fight her on.

"But never as 'Paul and April: dating'," she says, spreading her hand out in the air in a revealing nature.

"Oh, so that's what's going to be on my back. Good to know, good to know."

She laughs and takes his hand, leaning against his arm.

"We can hold hands now," she says softly and he squeezes her hand, liking the fact that he can make her voice turn soft.

"Yeah, we can."


	20. Almost

**May 2007**

He doesn't sit with her family as she crosses the stage. Her eyes look to her mother, to her father, to her grandparents, and they continue their search until they find him. He can see the relief break on her face and as she walks down the steps she gives him a slight wave and he returns it, his heart swelling with something that can be best described as pride.

There are eyes on him and his clash with Lorelai. Everything and everyone around him dims and all he can see is her eyes, all he can feel is the odd sensation that he is falling and there is no end.

There's an uproarious shout and their momentary connection is broken as the students throw their caps into the air. Black robes start to filter into the guests section and he remains seated as parents stand and hug their son or daughter, crying and laughing and, for those who affection comes hard by, giving firm handshakes.

He observes, through the constantly moving bodies of those around him, Lorelai embracing Rory, then passing her on to Christopher and her grandparents. Richard and Emily look proud, a different, much softer proud than what their wealth affords them.

He smiles a little when Lorelai and Emily hug, not a hug for the sake circumstance, but as a mother to another mother who has done something right.

Soon, his vision of them is blocked and the press of the crowd forces him to stand and move from his seat, making his way to the back, where clusters of families and friends stand in the shade taking pictures.

He spots the Gilmore family, standing beneath a massive tree with the stage and the University as a perfect backdrop for the professional photographer that's positioning them. He should probably go to Miss Patty's now, he thinks to himself, but his feet move towards them and his hand reaches into his suit jacket for the digital camera he just recently learned to use.

He stands at a distance at an angle to the photographer and waits until they fall out of their poses to take his own set of pictures, grudgingly wondering if he can Photoshop Christopher out.

He takes a few more shots and waits for Christopher, Richard, and Emily to move aside so that Lorelai and Rory can get some shots alone to capture the pictures that will really matter, that he'll frame and put in his photo album. Lorelai smoothes Rory's soft curls away from her face and from here he can tell that she's barely holding it together. Her daughter and best friend is grown- she will be leaving and truly heading out into the world to be rejected and received.

He raises the camera to get a shot of the two of them fighting over the tassel when she looks up, directly into the view finder, her blue-eyed stare hitting him square in the pupils.

He hesitates before snapping the picture and lowers the camera, still holding her gaze. Rory looks over at him and before he knows it she is hugging him, telling him how glad she is that he could make it, asking him if he shed some tears.

He hears what she's saying and he answers her questions, but he is preoccupied by the way Lorelai walks slowly towards them, shadows in the depths of her eyes.

"Luke," she says, holding out a hand.

"Lorelai."

There is a shift in the shadows when he says her name, but it is gone as quickly as it came and her hand leaves his, her arm dropping to her side.

"I'm surprised to see you here," she says, her voice off.

"Well," he smiles at Rory, "I was told to come, so I came. I couldn't miss this."

"Yeah, this couldn't be missed," she nods and her hand goes to the base of her neck, pressing heavily on the thin filigree gold necklace lying around it.

"Well, I see Grandma and Grandpa beckoning. I'll be back," Rory says, sensing that they need a brief moment, especially her mother, whose wall she can see is crumbling around her.

Lorelai watches her walk away to her grandparents, who are watching Luke curiously. She can hear her mother now, questioning Rory on who that man is. Rory says something that obviously doesn't sit well with Emily because her face turns gargoyle and her eyes are coals.

Lorelai turns back to Luke. "I would tell you to run, but she'll probably transform into a winged crocodile and bite your head off."

An amused, confused look crosses his face and a fragment of her stiffness melts towards him. She missed that look.

"Lorelai."

Ice floods her veins and she instinctively moves towards Luke before she faces her mother.

"Mother."

Emily searches her daughter's face for a second before turning her gaze on Luke, scrutinizing every part of him. Lorelai can see her mentally labeling him, choosing all his flaws and creating some more for him. She can see the great scale of judgment being tipped towards damnation as her scrutiny goes on.

"Lorelai, aren't you going to introduce me?" Emily asks, her eyes still on Luke. Lorelai peeks at Luke to see him looking down at her, a small smile on his face. In an odd way, it gives her courage.

"Mother, this is Luke Danes, a long-time friend. Luke, this is my mother, Emily Gilmore. If you feel your skin peeling back, it's because you're being treated to the Emily effect. Symptoms wear off soon."

Emily glares at Lorelai. "My daughter has a wild imagination and little to no couth." She turns her attention back to Luke.

"Rory has mentioned you from time to time. I've always wondered about this Luke Danes. And now I've met you."

"Yes," he nods, giving her a bare smile, "you have."

Her cold stare turns inquisitive. "You must come by for dinner."

He rolls his shoulders, becoming uncomfortable. "Well…"

"Lorelai, he can come Friday."

"Mom-"

"I'll expect to see you Friday at seven, Mr. Danes," she extends a hand and Luke quickly shakes it. Emily nods curtly and glances at Lorelai.

"I'll talk to you later."

She leaves then, going back to Richard, Rory, and Christopher, who are watching intensely.

They stand in silence, the sound of rustling trees and scattered chatter drifting between them.

"How long are you staying?" she asks.

"Long enough to attend your mother's dinner and recover," he answers wryly and she tries to keep herself from smiling.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to go."

He looks away from her and to Rory, who is talking to Christopher, who is nodding and occasionally glancing at Lorelai. He thinks of this dickhead who he has had to deal with in some capacity for several years and he always finds himself on the losing end.

Well, not today, not while he's feeling bold.

"No, I want to go. It's not every day I'm invited to eat on real plates."

A smile blooms on Lorelai's face and he finds himself experiencing acute vertigo, the kind people rarely recover from. He wants to reach out and touch her, run his hand over her bare arm, smooth his fingers through her hair. She is close enough to touch, to get lost in, but this isn't the time nor is it the place.

"I'm glad that you're here. For Rory," she says sincerely and he wants to add that he's not only here for Rory, but they are interrupted.

"Lorelai, Emily wants some pictures of the three of us," Christopher says, loping up beside Lorelai. Her lips compress and tight lines are visible around her mouth, clearly showing her irritation at his intrusion.

"I'll be right there, Chris," she says without looking at him and he throws a malevolent look at Luke before walking off.

"Some things you can count on not changing," Luke says as he watches Christopher step back into the charmer role.

"And sometimes that's a good thing," she replies, gazing at him steadily.

He doesn't try to ignore the ambiguity of that statement-instead, he takes it and lets it rattle around in his head, listening to all the responses it garners as it hits certain thoughts.

"And sometimes that's not enough," he says, choosing the one response that sits right. She blinks, drawing back as though confronted with something unpleasant.

"Why are you here? And don't say for Rory's graduation."

He puts his hands in his pockets and turns his attention to Rory and her grandparents.

"I came back because I had to. Staying away is a hard thing to do, despite how much I kid myself bout the reasons for doing so. And I'm not going to talk about it here, now. Later, but not now," he finishes, turning his eyes on her, knowing she was about to question him.

The trees ruffle in the breeze and he checks his watch, cursing under his breath. "I gotta go. I'll see you at Patty's, right?" he asks her and there's a brief flicker of annoyance in her expression before it smoothes over.

"At Patty's I will be. Goodbye for now, Luke," she leaves him then, walking stiffly towards her family.

He watches her go, a new kind of heaviness settling on his chest.


	21. Funhouse Mirrors

**December 1994**

She opens one eye and shuts it quickly, a silent scream ripping her brain apart. Oh, God. This is a tequila dream. This is a tequila dream. This is not real. It's the tequila and lime and the worm creating nightmarish illusions, she prays and she takes a deep breath before cracking her eye open again.

"Fuck," she whispers and is aware of her nakedness, of the stickiness between her thighs, of the soreness and general discontent that comes from calling Christopher.

He is facedown, gently snoring, his lower body tangled in her sheets. She has a sudden flash of Luke, naked, all muscle and hot flesh, throwing off the sheets and rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other across her back, traveling beneath the covers, rubbing her ass.

Her stomach rumbles at the image and her throat swells with wanting him here, in her bed, rubbing her the right way. Instead she in her bed with the last person she should be with, the last person she wants to be with, the very person who Luke accused her of waiting for.

She carefully detangles herself from the bed and, with no regard for the frigid air, paces the floor, trying to put some sense in her nonsensical brain. She has to sort out her needs. She needs coffee. She needs strong coffee. She needs a shower. She needs a strong, scalding shower. She needs to call Rory and see if Mrs. Kim hasn't sent her to the puritans of South Korea. She needs to get Christopher out of here before Rory comes home. She needs to get Christopher out. She needs to talk to Luke before he goes. She needs a lobotomy.

She stands still, letting all her thoughts put themselves in the right order. Bath. Kick Christopher out. Strong Coffee. Call Rory. Call Luke. Get lobotomy.

She grabs some clean undergarments, a shirt, a pullover, and sweatpants and makes it to the bathroom in a relatively straight line. The world spins around her, her frog-themed bathroom coming to life. Frogs in 1930 Fords playing the banjo slap their knees and drink from jugs of moonshine. Frogs in raincoats and boots jump in puddles of soap. Frogs in tutus twirl and do pirouettes around the sink. A frog on a lily pad sings Pavarotti on her toilet.

"Stop. Stop. Shhhhh," she says to the room. The spinning comes to a halt and the frogs no longer jump and sing and drink moonshine.

She turns on the shower to near boiling temperatures and steps beneath the spray, drawing the shower curtain closed. She runs her hands over her hair, the water slicking through her scalp. She shudders, feeling like she just washed the dandruff out and the itching is gone. She reaches for the soap, but she falls forward on her arms and puts her face up into the spray, the hot water pelting her skin. It should hurt, but it doesn't. It feels dull, like a butter knife repeatedly being rubbed across her fingertip.

She turns the knob the opposite direction, sucking in her breath as bone chilling ice water comes raining down on her, forcing her to her knees. She sobs, the rumbling in her stomach becoming more pronounced.

"Oh, no," she groans before she vomits, emptying the contents of her stomach down the drain. She lets the water wash the vomit from her mouth and she sits back, pulling her knees up to her chest, her hair falling around her sides. She let it get long. She hates long hair like this, long hair that reaches the middle of her back, but Luke liked to play with it whenever he could- when they sat on the couch, watching a movie he pretended to hate, when he ate dinner with them, when he comforted her after an especially hard day at work or with her parents, when she laid against his side, her skin pressed against his and she listened to him breathe. She kept it long for Luke, but now she'll have to cut it. Christopher played with it last night. And this morning.

The new memory brings tears to her eyes and she is crying silently, the immediate guilt over what she has done washing over her without pause, the grief of definitely losing him forever causing her to dig her nails into her arms to keep from screaming out.

After the ice cold numbs her body, she stands and soaps herself from head to toe and washes away all vestiges of the tequila nightmare. She turns off the shower and draws aside the curtain, pausing when she thinks she hears the phone ringing. The creaking of her bed springs and loud shuffling indicates that Christopher is up and she shakes her head, wondering why she does this.

She dries and dresses, opening the door prepared to find him sitting on a corner of the bed, giving her those bedroom eyes, those puppy eyes that always seems to get to her. She knows what kind of eyes they are now- they are those carni mirror funhouse eyes. They distort whatever real feeling you may have and turn it into something that has you waking up the next morning washing jizz from the inside of your thigh, dreading facing those eyes again once you do.

But he isn't sitting on the corner of her bed. He isn't even in the room. She listens and hears a muffled voice downstairs.

"Chris?" she calls out, curious as to what has him in muffled voice mode.

She throws her towel on the bed and leaves her room, coming slowly down the stairs. She can hear him say something that sounds familiar, a name that sounds wrong coming from his mouth. Her heart skids to a stop as she listens to what he says. He's on the phone. With Luke.

"Noted. You'll miss your plane."

That sentence explodes as it travels long her auditory canal and before she knows it she is wrestling the phone from his hand and yelling Luke's name into the phone. The thunder of the dial tone sounds in her ear and she presses the phone against her forehead, envisioning the eerie blue of his eyes crystallizing in anger as he stalks away from the phone booth, hating her and damning her to hell.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she twists away from it.

"Don't touch me," she says softly and she replaces the phone on its cradle.

"Lorelai," he says in the form of a sigh and bugs crawl down her spine.

"I want you out of here. I want your clothes off my floor. I want your bottles off my table. I want your cartons of Chinese food out of my living room. I want you gone by the time I come back with Rory. I don't want you to call her suddenly either, asking her questions if I'm okay or anything like that. I want you back in Hartford being miserable at your parent's house. I want you gone Christopher," she says silkily, the fury rising with every second, with every word.

"Lorelai, please-"

"Get the fuck out! Get out!" she screams, whirling on him, looking like a banshee about to claw his eyes out.

He turns and heads up the stairs and she grabs her wallet, her keys, and her jacket and trips out the back door to her jeep. She backs out, nearly side swiping his BMW, and drives to the diner, practically parking on the front steps.

The diner is empty, the sign flipped to closed. She gets out and walks to the door, putting a hand against the glass. There, on the counter, is a placard that says her name with an arrow pointing to a bag of coffee.

She breaks down crying and is still crying when Caesar and Babette find her clutching the door handle and take her home.


	22. The Laws Have Changed

The title is taken from a song by The New Pornographers of the same name.

**May 2007**

It is just Lorelai and Christopher in his car heading towards Stars Hollow after Emily and Richard take Rory to a special lunch date at the planetarium, which had recently been named in her honor.

She is distracted with so many thoughts, thoughts of Rory moving out to Chicago to write for an online journal, thoughts of her trip to Italy to supervise the opening of an inn for a business friend, thoughts of Luke standing beneath that tree, the sunlight dappled across his face, his eyes taking on the color of the light green leaves.

She hears him ask her something, but she ignores him, preferring to not say anything at all and think, but he asks again, louder this time.

"What?" she asks, irritated.

"So he's back, huh?"

She looks over at him and nods. "Yeah, he's back."

"And so…"

"And so what Christopher? He's back for Rory's graduation and then he's leaving. So what?"

They stop at an intersection and he looks over at her, his generally handsome face lined with concern. To any other woman this concern mixed with his New England privileged good looks might make her open up and melt, but she's already played this game with him; she's lost so many times that she's found a way to win and keep on winning. She waits for him to speak, knowing that he will and knowing what he will say.

"I'm just worried about you, Lor. I know how much he hurt you the last time you saw him, and I know that that was partly the reason why we got back together-"

"And why I broke it off," she interrupts, staring him down.

"But we're doing good now, aren't we?" he continues.

"Chris," she sighs and rubs her forehead, a headache coming on. Damn, she's been having a lot of these lately and they more times than not throw her off course.

"Chris, we're Rory's parents. We always do well apart from each other. How many times do we have to repeat this dream of yours before you realize that I don't love you like that? How many times do you have to leave me, do I have to kick you out before you get that we make great perennial acquaintances?"

The light turns green and they make a quick u-turn, heading towards the highway.

"But we had Rory. And we still keep coming back to each other."

"I don't see what your point is."

He scratches the back of his head. "My point is that Luke is back. And I don't know where we stand."

Silence enters the car and she stares at him with disbelief, hoping to God he isn't serious. When he glances at her, waiting for a response, she bursts out laughing, her headache becoming more pronounced, but she laughs anyway.

"Are you kidding me?" she gasps and wipes a tear from her eye.

"No, Lorelai, I'm not," he answers through gritted teeth.

"Okay," she breathes, settling herself, "how about we try complete and total honesty? I'll go first."

She clears her throat and turns in her seat towards him.

"Yes, we have Rory. You donated sperm and we have a beautiful, intelligent, funny, daughter that is the perfect mix of the two of us. But I raised her. My parents helped me put her in the best schools. My town helped me give her a rich environment. Luke showed her what a Dad is supposed to be, and even though he went to Seattle, even though he had a girl of his own to raise, he never stopped showing Rory. And sometimes I forced Rory to think of you as the kind of father that Luke is, and I was wrong. I'm sorry about that," her voice drops as she thinks of those times, when she yelled at Rory to give him a chance, that not everyone is like Luke, not everyone cares the way Luke cares, but he's not here, he left and she has a real father, a father that loves her and if he wants to take her to see Cats, she's going to see Cats.

"I did a horrible thing by using you to fill the hole he left, but if anything, you make it bigger. It's not that you're terrible and it's not that I hate you, that I want to hurt you, but it's because of the way I look at you and see how I've led you to hope when you have no real cause to. I love Luke," she whispers and tears fall onto her silk shirt, but she doesn't acknowledge them.

"I love him so much that I hurt so badly and so deeply. I never knew I could feel this way until that day when he called and you answered. I've been hurting for years because I love him and I haven't been able to show him, because saying 'I love you' to Luke will never be enough for him to believe. And I understand that because I want that too. I need that. And I'm sorry, from the depths of my heart, I'm sorry," she finishes and she can see water shimmering in his eyes as he tries to keep it together.

It would be callous of her to offer him comfort now, after she gave him the biggest 'This is the end' speech she could manage, so she turns in her seat and faces the window, staring out as the cars and the trees and the building blur past her.

She must've fallen asleep because the next thing she knows, she's parked in front of Doose's, the town decorated in every bright color feasible, balloons and streamers and sparklers and signs with Rory's name on them everywhere. She shifts in her seat just as her door opens and a glass of lemonade with Rory's name in white, silver, and blue painted on it and a running list of movies she's seen on the back is handed to her.

"Here, I figured you'd be thirsty from all that drooling," Chris smiles and she takes a long sip.

"Thanks," she says after she finishes the glass and unbuckles herself, stepping out of the car.

"Well, I delivered you safely. I'm going to get going."

"Chris, wait," she takes his arm and holds him in place, looking into his face. He doesn't look angry, and he doesn't look upset. He looks like the Christopher that used to be her friend.

"What I said in the car, I'm sorry that it came out that way, I was-"

"You were telling the truth. And I accept it. Don't apologize for it," he says, serious, and he hugs her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"I would've taken anything I could get if it meant having what was left. But you're not that kind of woman. And I can't be that kind of guy anymore. I'm the father of a Yale graduate," he says as he steps away from her, a quippy smile on his face.

She can't do anything but grin. "But you can still stay, be here when Rory comes home."

He shakes his head, opening his car door, "But I'm not home, Lorelai," his eyes tell her that he understands what she told him and that he's moving aside.

"Tell Rory I'll call her later. Goodbye and good luck, Lorelai," he says before getting into his car and driving away.

She watches until his car disappears and she lets out a long breath, expelling all the pent up emotions from all the years. She feels lighter, her headache is gone, and she can take a deep breath without thousands of thoughts bombarding her, without feeling guilty.

Her eyes sweep over the square, seeing a stage and Lane and her band warming up; Miss Patty working with little people in blueberry costumes; Kirk and Taylor arguing with each other and a big guy in a gray jumpsuit pointing to something on the ground; Gypsy fitting a grease stained sheet over a structure that looks suspiciously like a car; Luke with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up putting up tents and blue tarp with Jackson.

Luke.

Her newfound lightness flees and every muscle tightens as her vision fills of him. He is working quickly, glancing up at the sky and saying something to Jackson, who does the same thing.

She looks up too and her heart sinks. Dark gray clouds crowd around the sun and a cool, wet wind blows, ruffling her skirt.

She spots Sookie stirring a pot vigorously and runs across the street, ducking under the tent and coming up besides her.

"Sookie, hey."

"Ooohooohooo," Sookie squeals, dropping her spoon in the delicious smelling sauce and hugging her and twirling around.

"She graduated, she graduated! Oh my God, I know someone who graduated from Yale! I'm the aunt of a Yalie! Ooooooohh!"

She laughs and jumps up and down with her best friend, celebrating her happiness. "I know! I know! I cried for you, Barbara Streisand, and me. The snot was all yours though," she says as they separate and Sookie clasps her hands, holding them to her chest.

"I will gladly accept the snot. You have to tell me all about the ceremony. Did you take pictures? Was her robe too big? Did her shoes hurt? Did they spell her name right on the diploma? How was the weather?" she asks.

"Well, um, I took twenty rolls of film of Rory walking the stage alone, I had pins with me, she had on army boots, I think Yale spell checks, and the weather was, well, peachy," she answers, dipping a finger in the sauce and lifting her eyebrows in surprise.

"Syrup?"

"Yep! This is for the pancakes. I've been toying with it all day. I was going to make cinnamon orange syrup with crème fresh fruit topping, but then I thought that would be too fancy and too healthy, so I made cinnamon orange syrup with vanilla whip cream and twice whipped butter. And then I thought about the crème fresh and I know that Rory loves granola, so I made crème fresh fruit topping with granola," she stirs the pot one last time and sets the burner on low.

"I also made some chocolate chip cookies, upside-down pineapple cakes, lasagna, chicken nuggets, my version of pizza rolls, steak, real French fries, garlic and cheese mashed potatoes, meatloaf, peas and carrots-"

"But where is all this stuff?" she asks, walking after her as she leaves the tent.

"Oh, it's all scattered about the square, you know, if she wants to finger-paint and eat shish kabobs, she can finger-paint and eat shish kabobs. Hmmm," she looks up at the sky, "it looks like the sky's about to let loose. I gotta go check on the slushies."

"But Sookie, it's going to rain like we might need an ark," she exclaims and Sookie raises a shoulder.

"Lorelai, it's no big deal. Luke got the tents, we're getting them up, everything's going to be fine. We might have to huddle in Patty's to watch the slideshow and the band might have to play on the church steps, but it'll work out. She'll love it."

She sighs. "Well, if you say it, I believe you. Do you need any help?"

Sookie shakes her head, a mischievous grin creeping across her face. "No, I got some kids from the marching band helping me out, but I think Luke might need a hand."

"Sookie, please."

"What? You thought I wouldn't bring up the fact that Luke is here, finally? I know you've been waiting for him, despite Chris."

She folds her arms over her chest and throws a look at him, his back turned to her, getting into the argument with Kirk, Taylor, and the big guy in the gray jumpsuit.

"Yeah, well, I don't know about that. Hell, I don't even want to deal with all that has happened today, which I will tell you about later," she adds as Sookie's eyes widen, "but I can't think about that now. Today's Rory's day. So, for Rory's sake, I'll make myself useful to whoever might need me."

She starts to walk away when Sookie calls out, "Luke! Lorelai's coming to help you out. Remember she's still in heels, okay?"

She turns, about to yell, when Sookie smiles broadly and waves, hurrying off.

She turns back and he is ambling towards her, a grin on his face, looking devastatingly handsome in black.

All her walls crumble.


	23. No Hands

**January 2006**

He stands in front of a peeling gray door in a tiled hallway with bundles of newspapers in the corners and plants lining the wall. He checks the wrinkled piece of paper and hesitates before knocking.

When there's no answer, he knocks again, this time harder. "Rory? It's me, Jess."

"Hold on," he hears her yell and there is a series of clicking noises before the door inches open and big, crystal blue eye shine out at him.

"Hey," he says and she sniffs, opening the door wider and letting him in.

"Hey yourself," she replies, her voice scratchy and rough.

He examines her face when she turns around from closing the door, noticing the red puffiness of her eye lids, the redness of her nose, the messiness of her chestnut hair, streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She is still dressed in a dark blue ball gown in sweeping silk and folds and she is barefoot, her manicured toes poking out from beneath her dress. Standing there, looking beautiful and obviously heartbroken with bunched tissues in her hand, she reminds him of Connie Nielsen from Gladiator when Maximus was being carried away.

"Rory, what's wrong?" he asks, taking off his coat and hat, dropping his backpack, and coming towards her, stopping before he comes too close.

"I'm such an idiot, Jess. I'm not even in the same ring as Jessica Simpson. I'm with Bill O'Reilly or Tucker Colbertson or, I don't know, they guy who wrote my tenth grade history book, who, by the way, was more interested in the love interests of our presidents than in the Battle for New Orleans or the Missouri Compromise," she rambles, sweeping past him and flopping onto a settee.

"Where's Paris?" he asks as he looks around at boxes piled high like columns, papers littering the floor, pizza boxes and other take-out cartons scattered on every flat surface.

"She's in Vermont with her boyfriend, Doyle, on assignment. I don't think you met him, he was hiding when you came by last time," she wipes her nose and grabs another handful of tissue.

"So that explains the near chaos," he says, going to the kitchen and looking in the cupboards beneath the full sink for trash bags.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving you from Grendel," he stands, opening a trash bag and shoveling all the contents on one side of the kitchen counter into the bag.

He listens to her sniffle and cough and wants to go back to her original statement about her idiocy, but he has a feeling it has to do with her I-own-a-media-powerhouse-so-kiss-my-asshole boyfriend and he'll just upset himself and her.

He is digging through the dishes in the sink for the washrag when he smells lilies and looks over. She is standing next to him, looking forlornly at the dishes.

"I want you to know that I did not do this all by myself in one night. It's been building for days, I've just been so busy and Paris is so busy and Logan's been very busy, here," she reaches into the sink, bringing up the washrag and handing it to him.

He takes it, not knowing how she does things like grieve and find washrags that nearly cost him a hand. He turns on the water and starts washing, aware that her eyes are on him, studying him, trying to figure him out. After so many years, he has learned to feel her stare instead of see it- it makes it better for him to resist whatever might be in her eyes.

"You cut your hair. It's not as long," she says, her fingers brushing the back of his neck. He scrunches his neck, uncomfortable with her touching him when she's crying over her boyfriend.

"Yeah, I had to clean up for an interview. I didn't want a guy who was entrusting his book to me to think I look like I don't give a shit. No matter what people say, it's appearance first, what comes out of your mouth second. April told me that. She's a smart kid, too smart at times," he rambles.

She is silent for a while before speaking again. "You're avoiding me."

He shakes his head. "I'm not avoiding you. I'm helping you."

"By washing my dishes? By not asking me why I'm in a ball dress and crying with snot dripping from my nose in excess quantities?"

He drops a plate he's been scrubbing and turns fully towards her, angry.

"I came, didn't I? You called me, I took three trains, a bus, and a really fucked up taxi to make it here per your request," he moves past her, running a soapy hand through his not-really-that-short hair.

"But-"

"But what Rory? It's obvious you're crying over that shithead and a part of me, actually two-thirds of me, wants you to wake up and see that he's not even worth the shit you put up with, but you won't and I don't know what I'm supposed to do here! Why did I even come?" he asks, fed-up.

She looks at him with watering eyes and wipes her nose with tissue. "Because I need that. I need what you can give me. I need you to yell at me and tell me he's a shithead and get exasperated with me and not pity me and give me sad eyes. I needed you and that's why you came," she says quietly and walks over to the couch, falling back against the pillows.

He stands in the middle of her kitchen, cursing himself as a complete jerk that's been defeated.

He sighs and goes to sit next to her on the couch, as close as he can stand without touching her. She looks over at him and moves closer, resting her head on his shoulder and curls her feet up beneath her, her knees butting against his thigh. One arm circles his own and the other comes around to hang on his shoulder across his chest.

He doesn't move, he can't move. He's paralyzed from feeling her hair brush his cheek, from the warmth that is wrapping around his body. When he feels a salty dampness cool a particular spot on his shoulder and his body starts to shake not of its own accord, he slips his arms around her, his hands rubbing her clutching arm and shuddering back.

"Rory, shhhh," he whispers into her hair.

She sniffs and lifts her face, her eyes bodies of the water in which he can only dream of swimming. He can read something in her eyes, some kind of intention mixed with fear and his organs clench together as he begins to recognize what the intention is and why she fears it.

"Jess," she whispers, her breath warm and smelling of cider and cinnamon.

It takes a moment for him to realize that her lips are on his. She moves her head back before he can even process the action and they search each other's eyes, knowing that if either of them makes move, it will change everything, either way.

He should get up and walk away from her, but all he can think about is her mouth and those eyes and her hand on his neck and he groans before kissing her, giving up and not caring about why.

She immediately opens and deepens the kiss, turning it into a slow, careful exploration of pleasure. He leans back, bring her up on to his lap, his hands lost in her hair and they continue the kiss, going beyond the need for air and breathing off each other.

He draws his mouth from hers and his hands slip down to her back as her weight settles more firmly onto his thighs and she brings his head to her chest, kissing the top. Her breasts rise and fall against his face, the sensation causing his breathing to become short.

"Jess," she breathes as he lifts his face from her breasts and kisses the inside of her neck, moving down to run his tongue along her collarbone.

"Jess," she says again, this time gently pushing his head back so that she can look at him.

"I…I want you..." she reaches down between them to press on the straining pressure in his jeans, "I want you."

His mind fogs over as he listens to her words and, even more telling, her action. He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice fails him.

Her blue eyes go dark and her cheeks lose all color. "I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this. I-"

His hands find the back zipper of her dress and he watches as her eyes catch fire and her skin glows red as he slowly unzips her and works the straps from her shoulders.

She moves off his lap and lets the dress fall, exposing a powder blue strapless push-up bra and underwear against rosy colored flesh. He reaches for her, needing to run his hands over her flat stomach and soft curves, but she takes his hand and pulls him up, putting him a little ways from her.

She captures his eyes and holds them as she unhooks her bra and steps out of her underwear, dropping both garments near the dress.

"Rory," he manages, his voice breaking. All of this is too overwhelming. There she is, the girl he has loved from the second he saw her on the deck of Siousxie, standing among boxes and papers, naked, waiting.

"Here," she steps towards him, giving him a full, penetrating kiss. When they break apart, she takes his hand and, never taking her eyes off of his, leads him to her room and shuts the door softly behind them.


	24. Snow Day

**December 2007**

"It's the most wonderful time of the year! We've got holly and lights and glowing fruit cake and snowing all daaay!!! It's the most wonderful time…of the year!!!! Take it away, Linnaeus," April sings as she twists lights around the front porch railing.

Linnaeus howls as he sits on the top step and she claps, dropping her bundle of lights to rub the dog's head.

"April!"

She rolls her eyes and smiles at the dog. "Yeah, Dad?"

"Can you please quit encouraging the dog?"

"Ah, but that was his Christmas present to you!"

Luke comes out onto the front porch, shrugging on a gray overcoat. He is dressed for business in a smooth new blue suit and his Italian brown leather lace ups are polished to an expert shine.

She lifts an eyebrow. "Where are you going? Church?"

He shakes his head, rubbing Linnaeus on his snout and giving her a quick kiss on the forehead.

"No, I have to go to an emergency business meeting," he says as he jogs down the steps and goes to the M6 that's already parked in the drive.

"Business meeting? Is it about the diner? The teahouse? Jess?" she asks from the bottom step.

"Uh, it's the last one. I'll be back before eight. Call Paul if you feel the need to plant Santa on the roof," he says with a grin and slips into the car, revving the engine before backing out of the drive, honking as he drives away.

She waves, even though he's gone, and sighs, looking back at Linnaeus. "Well, Daddy's gone for the day to save Jess from financial ruin, Leslie's in L.A., and my friends are either doing something glamorous or doing something Christmas-y. I guess it's just you and me."

Linnaeus rolls over on his side, feigning sleep and she laughs.

"You lazy, lazy, dog."

It is a few hours later and April is on the back porch making garlands when she hears a car pulling into the driveway and Linnaeus' excited bark. She listens to hear who it might be, a smile breaking on her face when she hears him rough housing with the dog.

She puts down her work and creeps around to the front, rolling a mound of snow in her hand. Ready to attack, she jumps out only to find the yard empty and no car in the drive. She lowers her arm, a hint of fear entering her mind as she calls out for Linnaeus, about to turn around when something cold and wet hits her in the back of her head.

"Hey!" she yells, twirling around and getting snow balled in the face.

"How does the snow taste? Good?" Paul asks, Linnaeus standing beside him, his tail thumping.

"I'm going to pound-" Another one hits her on her shoulder.

"Man, this is like aiming at a wall three feet away! You're no good at all at-"

He gets hit in the head and she laughs as he shakes snow from his skullcap.

"Do you really think you're up to this, Danes?" Paul asks as he starts gathering up snow, edging towards one of the big, bare trees for cover.

"Oh, I'm up to it," she says and ducks behind a set of garden chairs when he throws snow at her.

They sit on the rug in front of the fireplace, eating s'mores and drying their clothes, Linnaeus lying at their feet, a blanket covering him.

"I can't believe you're not soaked," Paul says, finishing a s'more.

"You underestimated my snowball assault tactics. Ghost Recon champion, Paul," April says licking her fingers and smiling at him sweetly.

He smiles back, his eyes light, and then they change. They grow serious and curiously blue and she doesn't move when his face inches closer to hers, when his mouth presses against hers.

They've kissed before, always closed lip, but something feels different, her stomach is light. When his tongue lightly brushes across her lips, she is surprised, but not so surprised to draw back. She parts her mouth and they lightly, hesitantly french, slowly bringing the kiss to a close with a light peck.

They lean away from each other, grinning.

"That was nice," she says.

"Yeah, it was nice," he agrees.

"You taste like graham crackers," she says, taking his hand.

"And you taste like chocolate," he says, linking his fingers through hers.

They sit silently staring at each other, the two of them feeling elevated and in love, but not wanting to say it.

"Why did you come over?"

Paul moves closer to April, putting an arm around her neck and playing with her hair. "Your dad called me, told me that you might need some help decorating."

She laughs. "He called you? That's so OOC."

"Yeah, I know, and then he threatened to dismember me if I did anything 'inappropriate'."

She rolls her eyes and puts her head on his shoulder. "Now that sounds like my dad."

He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger, absently letting it unravel.

"I'm glad I'm here."

She nods. "I'm glad you kissed me."

They sit on the rug, in front of the fire, already warm.


	25. Flipping Coins

**May 2007**

Rory is leaving the ladies restroom, thinking of a way to escape this luncheon and drive like hell to Stars Hollow when she bumps into something solid, expensive, and blond.

"Logan?!"

"Hey, Ace," he says, his hands light on her upper arms, steadying her.

"What are you…why are here?"

He smiles that preppy, winning smile and her heart beats faster.

"I came to see you graduate, even though I shouldn't have."

She steps away from him, smoothing her hair nervously. "No, you shouldn't have. You should be in London or Rome, doing what you do."

He slips his hands into the fine charcoal cotton of his pressed pants, his two-button jacket undone displaying her favorite color shirt on him, a light blue cotton that soaks up his cologne and stays in long after it has been worn. She's worn that shirt many times and she's taken it off many times.

"Rome can wait- I had to see you. I never imagined that I wouldn't be there, waiting for you afterwards, ready to kiss you. Since I can't do that, I'll settle for attending this luncheon," he says easily, his voice never betraying how much he longs to hug her, feel her mouth against his cheek, smell her perfume. No woman in Rome can do to him what Rory Gilmore can do to him- he's learned that multiple times.

"Logan, please don't do this. Please," she says, wringing her hands.

He rolls his shoulders, his eyes hidden. "What am I doing, Ace?"

"You know what you're doing. You're here, looking good and smelling good and being you and I'm still susceptible to your ways, so please, go away, bump into a dessert tray, say you have to leave due to an international newspaper incident, something," she whispers, making a move to walk around him but he cuts her off.

"We tried this separation thing and it's not working, at least not for me. I can't sleep without thinking of you. I can't enjoy the museums without imagining your running commentary on history and art and the scandals of Michelangelo. I miss you," he whispers fiercely, for the first time letting his emotions come through, "I miss you and we were wrong."

She searches his face, seeing the truth and, reading him well, the lie.

"So there were no beautiful Roman girls coming and going? No Roman girls distracting you from the history and keeping you from thinking of me at night?"

He clenches his teeth and Rory nods simply. "Why do you want to make me out as a fool? We did this before, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. I remember you coming back to me, throwing in my face your fling with that wannabe writer," he answers angrily and she looks away from him.

"It's not like you've never made a mistake, Rory."

"But I don't continue making them, Logan. And I didn't like who I became when I was with you. If I stayed with you, I would be the female cuckold, and that's not me. It has been hard without you and your quick understanding and your affection, but I'm making it work. And so will you."

They stare at each other for a long time and he withdraws his hand from his pocket, holding out a small, square, velvet box.

"I came to ask you to think about being my wife," he says after she pales.

"But…"

"I know, we broke up, but, I don't know, I thought that maybe, if I came back and you still loved me, we could put it on a necklace until you were ready."

She shakes her head, tears threatening to overwhelm her.

"You're a real snob, you know that?"

He takes her hand and puts the box in her palm, closing her fingers over it. "I love you, Rory Gilmore. And you're the only one who can neutralize me. Please, love me."

When he lets her hand drop, she is still clutching the box.

"We'll put it on a necklace."


	26. Men of Station

**A/N:** The title of this chapter is taken from the song by 13 & God of the same name.

**December 2007**

Luke honks his horn and drums his fingers on the steering wheel, staring ahead of him at rows of cars, a majority of them high-end imports. He thinks again about how hard Jess has had to work to make it this far, about how hard it is for him to ask for help, so when he called last night, asking him for help, he could only imagine what measures Jess went through to fix the problem himself before dialing his number.

He is about to honk again when the passenger door opens, sucking out the heat, and Jess slips in, handing off a cup of coffee to him.

"Thanks," Luke says, surprised, and Jess just shrugs.

"I thought it was the least I could do since…" his voice trails off and he looks at Luke with apologetic brown eyes.

Luke knows better than to say anything when Jess is showing some sort of positive emotion towards him, so he just nods and takes a sip from his coffee, placing it in the cup holder when he's done.

He backs out of the apartment complex and takes the fastest route to Fremont, the ride completely silent. He parks in front of Truncheon and they get out, walking up to the tinted glass and steel doors.

"So who am I supposed to intimidate? Your partners, the lawyers, that code enforcement asshole?"

"I think the two of us looking like European hit men will be enough for this guy to bend. I just can't believe it's come to this," Jess mutters, shaking his head.

"Look, so the guy wants to leave and take half of your clientele with him. He thinks he's the next publishing god- let him think that. Leslie already drafted the settlement, debriefed me on how to act in her place, and I've seen her in action, I think I can do a pretty good job mimicking her. You're doing the right thing Jess," Luke gives him a firm pat on the shoulder, "and I'm here to make sure everything goes smoothly."

Jess rubs the back of his head, suddenly reminding Luke of his father. They have the same eyes, the same dark, world-weary face, the same unruffled, unaffected manner that to anyone who didn't know them would come across as aloof.

"I just thought that things were, you know, going good. I mean, Luke, we have clients. We have authors. We are getting a steady stream of revenue; we are getting our name out. Why would Ben want to break away now, just when we're almost established? So he can take the authors he "found", who, coincidently, happen to be our biggest draw, and start the next Simon & Schuster?" he asks angrily.

Luke has rarely, if ever, seen Jess so distressed, and it bothers him just like when April got slighted during her eighth grade awards ceremony. It pains him to see the kid he's watched grow into a self-assured man suddenly start doubting what he has created. The parental instincts start to kick in more than before and he grips Jess's shoulder, forcing him to look him in the eye.

"Jess, believe me when I say this to you- everything will be fine. You'll get more authors, better authors. Yes, Truncheon might go through a leaner period, but I'm rich, I'll float you. I've got an M6 and two lucrative businesses to prove it," he smiles but Jess continues to look ruffled.

"I'll let you in on something that I was sworn never to mention. When in my third year of operating the diner in Seattle, I was losing money, fast. The property and city taxes were killing me and, for some reason, no one wanted to eat that year. I was facing the possibility of closing when Leslie gave me an envelope with a check inside. A post-it note saying 'From one restaurant owner to another' was attached to the check. Leslie's mother bailed me out. And when I asked Leslie why she would do this, she told me that I'm the only family she has in Seattle," Luke finishes.

Jess sighs and rubs his jaw, indicating that the self-doubt has passed and he's thinking of something to say.

"So, Leslie, huh?" he asks with a grin.

"I don't like your tone," Luke replies, taking his hand off of Jess's shoulder.

"I have no tone. I'm toneless. I'm just making an observation."

"Yeah, well, keep your observational skills restricted to book deals."

"Okay, Uncle Luke, okay, don't get uptight before we step inside," Jess says cheekily, opening the door and stepping aside.

"I don't even know why I bother," Luke says under his breath as he walks inside and Jess smiles to himself as he follows.

It's some hours later when Luke and Jess reemerge from the building.

"Yeah, I'll call you later Dave," Jess calls before closing the door behind him and they rush to the car to escape the increasingly bitter cold.

"How are you feeling?" Luke asks as he starts the engine, letting the car warm up.

"Hungry."

"Yeah, I didn't realize signing a couple of papers would take half a day," he says dryly and Jess shakes his head.

"Go ahead, say it."

"Say what? That I've never seen a bunch of men gab so much? I was tempted at one point to suggest I go and get the sleeping bags and nail polish."

"I didn't realize you were a comedian. When did this new personality trait develop?" Jess asks, sarcastic.

"When I had to say all those nice things to prevent your business from losing more money that it should," Luke replies with a grin and revs the engine, smoothly pulling out of the parking space and into light traffic.

"I visited Rory while I was in New York," Jess says after a long stretch of silence.

Luke glances at him, his mind racing with questions, but he has never been placed in the situation where Jess actually, voluntarily wants to talk about Rory. He decides to avoid the direct questions and instead ask some easy ones.

"Oh yeah? How is she?"

"She's fine. She has glasses now. They suit her."

"Yeah, I'm sure she looks more studious than ever."

They lapse into a brief silence, Luke wondering if he asked to easy a question and now Jess is back to being tightlipped and standoffish, when Jess speaks again.

"I don't why I keep hoping for her. I don't know why, but I do."

He looks over at his nephew, who is staring straight ahead, everything about him steady, and he wonders if he is breaking inside, if that note of defeat he heard in his voice is just the tip of what must be a glacier of disappointment and heartbreak.

"I know what you're feeling. God, do I know. Every time we think we have it together, down comes the house of cards. And, if we had any sense, we would wake up, move on, forget about that feeling and about that dream and settle for another one, but we have no sense. We want that first dream, we want it and we can't settle. If we can't have it, if it's so far away and out of reach, we bury it and only let it out when there's no one else around, when it's a particularly hellish day or night or both and we want to escape. We go back to that first dream and remember how close we were at making it a reality," he says, thinking of Lorelai.

"I'm not you Luke."

Luke nods, giving his nephew a sad smile. "I know, but you have to let her figure it out. She knows you love her, I know she does, you know she does, everyone knows, but she has to know. And you'll be fine once she does."

Jess eyes him carefully and turns back to the passing view. "Maybe. Let's stop by 14 Carrots."

Luke sighs. "Sure."

"What you said before, about first dreams and realities," Jess starts a couple minutes later as Luke turns onto the street leading to the restaurant.

"What about it?"

"You're full of shit."

Luke laughs and Jess smiles.

"Maybe."


	27. It Could Be, But It Isn't

**A/N:** To stave off any questions, Luke and Lorelai do get together.

**September 2007**

"God, I'm tired. Make it good, will ya?" Leslie groans as she slumps against the counter.

"I'll make it rare, how about that?"

She gives him a humorless grin and Luke heads quickly to the grill.

"You came by late. How's the case?" he asks as he seasons a mound of ground beef.

"Kicking my ass every which way but guilty. I should've become a defense attorney. I could limit my sense of judicial integrity and still bring in enough cash to buy some."

"You have enough cash to buy some. You want cheddar or Swiss?"

"Swiss. Two slices, one melted onto the bun, and I'm losing Luke! I'm losing. I'm not as persuasive as I used to be," she cries, putting her head down.

She can hear the sizzle of the meat being placed on the grill and his light footsteps coming around to sneak up on her.

"I can drop you like a sack of potatoes," she says, her head still down and he laughs.

"How do you know I'm not simply going to pat your back and give you tea?"

"Because," she lifts her head and looks over her shoulder at him, "I've known you for eleven years. You don't give pats."

He nods and takes the seat next to her, his elbow leaning on the counter. "True. You do know me well."

They stare at each other and a previously untouchable aspect of their relationship starts to grow into awareness.

"I like my burgers well-done, not charred," she says, breaking the stare and he curses, leaping off the stool to check on the grill.

She looks at her watch and sighs. It's five hours until sunrise and she has to be back in court for ten. She should go, especially after that moment, but she won't get any sleep and she's hungry. She rubs the bridge of her nose, the weariness and disappointment edging away into something similar to confusion and anxiety.

"Don't think about it so much."

She jumps, looking straight up into his eyes. Her cheeks grow warm when he looks at her curiously and she clears her throat, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her bun away from her face.

"Think about what?' she asks hurriedly, taking the plate he's holding and setting it in front of her, picking up the burger.

"The case. Trust yourself. In all my years of knowing you, you've never gone wrong when you do," he says gently.

A sudden question pops into her head that disturbs her and she drops the burger.

"What? What's wrong?" he asks, concerned, coming around to her side.

"I…what you said…I…have to go," she rushes, sliding off the stool.

She reaches for her briefcase, her arm brushing his person, and she is immediately conscious of the sheer physicality of him. She has always held a secret fascination for big guys and while Luke is not her ideal-not taller or especially muscular- she is attracted to his height and to his mildly bulky frame.

She turns towards him, staring into his face, looking at it, studying it, trying to find what it is about this face, this man she's seen almost everyday for years that, like a switch in the dark, has her stuttering and flushed. His eyes have always been a strange, changing blue that is now darker than ink. The planes of his face have always been strong and his skin has always been smooth with a healthy boater's tan, well, except for that one time when he discovered he was allergic to shellfish courtesy of her bouillabaisse.

She knows all his features, she knows what he looks like sick, healthy, tired, angry, happy, without a shirt on, without pants on, in trunks, dripping wet, in a suit, cursing as he plays a pirate for one of many of April's themed birthdays, in the diner, in his own skin. She knows him and yet never, never has she felt a spark, never has she so wanted to have his arms around her in a hug far from friendly, never has she wanted to run her hands through his rich dark hair and down his body, never until this morning, right now.

She moves closer, her suit jacket brushing against his battered white AC/DC shirt. She is reading his mouth and looking into his eyes, knowing that if she wants to kiss him, she can. If she wants to have him, she can. All she has to do is close the distance, brush her lips against his, and she'll have what she wants.

Being this close, she can smell the faint odor of expensive aftershave, a spicy aftershave that reminds her of someone, someone important to him. Her hand reaches up to touch his prickly cheek when she remembers a name.

"Lorelai," she whispers on a single stream of air and the effect is instantaneous. His shoulders drop and his eyes close and his breathing becomes shallow.

The aftershave- she remembers when she teased him about it and he told her Lorelai sent it to him from Milan. He didn't like it, she knew he wouldn't, but she sent it to him because she'll know that it would smell great on him. And it does.

She puts a hand on his upper arm, suppressing her desire for him and claims back the role as friend. She might have wanted more for those couple of minutes, but she couldn't do that to what they have, she can't want something that doesn't belong to her.

"Have you heard from her?"

He shakes his head and she steps back to a safer distance, erasing whatever extra feelings she might have for him in a couple easy steps.

"What happened?"

He rubs a hand across his face. "Between us, just now?"

"No," she breathes, "let's forget about that. What happened between you and Lorelai? I slacked off and didn't ask you when I stopped hearing you mention her name in every other sentence."

He opens his eyes and they are light again, as if a storm had just passed. "We had an argument. She wanted me to meet her in Rome. I told her I couldn't. She wanted me to come back to Stars Hollow. I told her I wouldn't. That was three weeks ago."

She watches him, a quick anger bubbling through her. "And why won't you?"

"Because I made a life here, Leslie."

"And you can't there? Let me ask you something, are you content with how the way things are now?"

"No."

"Then why don't you change it?"

"Because…" he shrugs.

"Jesus Christ, that's your answer? 'Because'?" she mimics.

He gives her one of his darkest looks and she rolls her eyes.

"Honestly, Luke, you are great at making yourself miserable. You have to give up something if you want to be with her. That's how it's gotta be. If you love her, and it's obvious that you love her, then you have to accept that. Suck it up for God's sake," she says, exasperated and moves to get her briefcase when he takes her arm.

"How? How do I do that Leslie?" he asks, his voice pained. She can see that he's been wanting to tell her and that touches her, it begs her to melt and give him her softest, most soothing voice, but she can't bring herself to be gentle with him, not when he keeps on throwing everything he's building with this woman away.

"You have to make a decision. You have to open your eyes and realize that you might have to give up everything to be truly happy, to be loved the way you've dreamed of being loved. Stop pissing around, Luke," she says fiercely, moving her arm out of his grasp and grabbing her case. She walks to the door and pulls it open, about to leave when she turns back and looks at him, her face without any compassion.

"I'll leave you with this before I go home and try to salvage the wreck that is my mind before court: would you give all you have here for what you know you can have there?"

She looks at him a moment, her heart lurching at how broken and lost he looks, and she leaves, shutting the door firmly behind her, shutting off her heart.


	28. Backtracking

**January 2006**

The sun is shining bright and unheeded onto her face. She yawns, stretching languorously as she blinks open her eyes, resting on a dark brown head sharing her white pillow. She freezes, remembering the night before. The long night before.

Her body warms as she remembers, melting her fear of knowing. She takes a deep breath, expanding her lungs and a frame of mind, letting air and thoughts flow in slowly. She takes stock of the situation.

She is lying on her back, her favorite blue, incredible soft cotton sheets covering her nakedness. She is sore from using unused muscles. She licks her lips, tasting her salt, tasting his. She feels touched everywhere; she feels known in every sense.

It should bother her, feeling this way, wanting to feel this way again, now. She is in love with Logan, not Jess. Jess is her friend, her best one besides her mother, besides Lane and Zach. Jess doesn't love her, he doesn't want her, he grudgingly likes her, respects her, admires her.

His hand lightly skims her body, the warmth of his palms raising bumps over the skin he passes. He smoothes his hand across her stomach and between her breasts, then over them, his fingers dry and practiced. He does all this while he watches her, his brown eyes night and abysmal, the only ray seeable is one of reverence.

Reverence. The word and his actions sound like a foghorn in her mind. He loves her?

She rises above him, slowly edging them towards the breaking point, drawing out the sharp, keen sensation of immeasurable pleasure, Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back, but she hears his voice, calling to her, and she opens her eyes, putting her head down to meet his hazy eyes, to see her name said so tenderly and gently and lovingly. Tears swell in her chest as the band between them starts to stretch, about to snap. He reaches up to brush the tears from her cheeks, sliding his hand down her arm to clasp her hand as they both break.

He does love her.

She painstakingly extricates herself from the bed, not breathing lest she wakes him. She trips on the sheet as she stands, falling to the ground with a loud thump and she cringes as she waits for the sudden burst of movement from the dark head. There is no movement. He continues to sleep.

Reaching for the quilt piled in a heap at the foot of the bed, she wraps it around her and stands, waiting another few seconds to be sure he is still asleep and brushing her hair from her face, holding its long tendrils in a firm grasp. She tiptoes over to him and examines him.

He is on his side, facing towards the windows. His face is relaxed despite the sun and his cheeks are shadowed by oncoming stubble. He has thick eyelashes, which makes her wonder if they must be a Danes trait, as Luke and April have thick lashes also. His shortish hair is mussed and she imagines it sticking up as if he's been given a serious noogie. She smiles, reaching out to brush a wayward lock from his face. He stirs, mumbling something and turns his face away and into the pillow, slipping his arm underneath it.

She moves back, at the same time noticing that the sheet, which hazardously covered him, has slipped and is now displaying a very firm, very nice ass. She takes a moment to speculate as to how exactly he managed to get the same even tan all over his body and then, because she would want the same thing done for her, carefully pulls the sheet back up and stops her ogling, picking up his discarded clothes and placing them on the chair by the desk on her way to the bathroom.

After a warm shower and a reality check, she paces the tiled floor of the bathroom, taking a seat on the toilet to think on a point before bounding up again and resuming her pacing.

Shit, she did the wrong thing. She knew what she was doing and she did it anyway. He is going to tell her that. He's going to tell her that she wasn't drunk, neither was he. He's going to tell her that there's something there, that something has always been there and he's right. Damn it, he's right.

She sits on the toilet. He's right. Last night was the culmination of seven years of looks and long silences, of awkward hugs and flaming cheeks. Last night was her wanting him, wanting to know that passion she always thought she saw flash in his eyes whenever they sat too close together or their conversation veered off to something decidedly too raunchy or sensual. But…

She jumps up. She used him to get back at Logan, the filthy little cad bastard asshole. They have an argument and two weeks later she learns, at his parent's party, ball, gala, whatever it was, that he fucked his way through half the night and dinner. Logan. She should break up with him. Yeah, they make a good couple, they fit well enough, they come from the same basic background and yeah, she loves him, but does she really need to put up with this bullshit?

She tightens the tie of her bathrobe, runs a hand through her partially wet hair, takes a deep breath and opens the door to her bedroom, expecting to find him still in bed, possibly awake, but her bed is empty and the clothes are gone from the chair. She forces down the bitter taste in her mouth at being ditched without so much as a "Thanks for the fuck" and turns to leave the room.

He is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his hair tossed. He is staring at her with guarded eyes and she realizes that he knows exactly what she is going to say, but, for some reason, he wants to go through the motions.

"I heard you making tracks in the bathroom, so I used Paris'. I made sure I left no evidence. I even vacuumed," he says lightly, his voice so different from the rest of his demeanor.

"I thought you left."

"Not without seeing you, no"

They stare at each other, each hoping the other would go first. At last, she steps towards him, her hands wringing in anxiety.

"Jess, what happened between us…it shouldn't have happened. I was using you to get back at Logan because he cheated on me."

His expression goes from guarded to dark and indifferent.

"But it happened. What are you going to do? Go back to Logan, say you had a revenge fuck and kiss and make up?'

"No, I'm going to tell him the truth and tell him how I feel," she responds in her most reasonable voice.

"How you feel?" he pushes away from the doorway and steps into the room.

"How do you feel?"

His scrutinizing gaze causes the skin on the back of her neck to itch.

"About what?" she asks unsteadily.

"About me. How do you feel about me?"

When she doesn't answer him, he walks out of the room and grabs his coat, shrugging it on and zipping it up.

"Jess, please, don't leave like this," she whispers and he turns, brilliant anger lining his face.

"Like what, Rory? I'm nothing to you except a little revenge. You don't want to face what having sex with me might mean. Yes, having sex," he says again when he sees her flinch at the words.

"We had sex. Only, I thought-" he stops abruptly, shaking his dark head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. It only matters what I do afterwards. I love you," he says to her, staring at her, "I love you and I always have and I probably always will. And I'm going because you don't love me. So I have to go, like this."

He turns from her and slings his backpack over his shoulder, going to the door in a quick, rapid blur of movement. He hesitates before pulling open the door and she holds her breath, her heart beating so fast because if he turns around, if he turns to her, with his eyes dark and his face set, she will go to him and she won't let go, she wouldn't be able to.

He pulls open the door and shuts it firmly behind him, not once looking back.


	29. Opening Up

**March 2010**

Dear Yalie,

Rory told me to call you that from now on. It sounds so preppy; then again, you always were so preppy. The classic American male. I showed a picture of you to a friend of mine, Rosie, and she went hysterical. She stole the picture, blew it up, and stuck it on her wall next to the lead singer of the Artic Monkeys and Cristiano Ronaldo. That might seem like nothing to you, but that's a major honor, my friend.

I'm glad that Rory's taken you under her wing. She loves Yale and her grandfather, who is, in a way, my grandfather, has these connections that can be beneficial to you at one point or another in your college career. God, I sounded so serious just then. London's made me serious. The rain and the snow and the cold and the work- it's made me old. My only reprieves are your letters and visiting Daddy, Lorelai and Adrao in Italy. I forgot to tell you that they moved from Portugal to Sicily for a villa restoration I have a feeling they are renovating for themselves, but Daddy and Lorelai are being tightlipped on the issue and Adrao tries his Italian out on me, so I'm left in the dark.

Right now, I'm sitting outside a café, in the mild cold, watching people walk past me, living their lives. They have no idea that my life has expanded to such an extent that at sometimes, I am overwhelmed. I miss Seattle. I miss Leslie. I know, she's still here, around, but I feel far from her, like she's been displaced and I have to wade through all these people to get to her. I miss her like I suppose a kid misses their mom, if they like their mom. You know she's the only mother figure I truly have ever known? I had a mother, but she died when I was young, so young, and my grandmother was in a home and Aunt Liz was too erratic to be a mother even to Jess and Lorelai has just gotten the title, but Leslie has been there since I could sift through mud.

I have so many people now, but I've been thinking of you in particular. You were distant in your last letter, like you wanted to tell me something, but you were afraid to. Whatever it is, tell me. Or I'll ask Rory and she'll tell me. We have that sister bond now, so be warned.

April

(P.S. I know we agreed to end it with just our names, but I keep on wanting to add 'Yours'. I know, inappropriate, especially when I'm the one who broke up with you, but I keep on thinking…nevermind. Write to me soon. I'll be home in three months.)


	30. 123

**May 2007**

"How does it look?" he asks as he comes up to her, still grinning.

She licks her dry lips and nods. "It's looking good. Very…tent-y."

"Tent-y," he repeats, turning to look out at the town square and the multicolored tents going up.

She can smell him, being this close and she sways towards him at the same time he brings his body around to face her. They collide, his hands encircling her back, her hands on his chest.

"Ooof, sorry. God, I swear, I'm not this klutzy," she says quickly as she tries to pull herself back from his body, but they are not moving, not letting go, not looking away.

"No, you're not a klutz. Even when you slam into an immobile object, you manage to do it gracefully."

She swallows carefully, her heart kicking up a few hundred beats per minute.

"Yeah, well, uh, you need any help? Like carrying non-fragile things?" she asks, easing herself back out of his arms.

He nods and still maintains an arm around her waist as he points out a perplexed Kirk staring at the audio equipment by the church steps. She listens to him as he tells her what needs to be done and she agrees. He lets go of her waist as he tells her thanks and jogs back to help Jackson with a tent.

In five minutes she completes her task, leaving Kirk to sound check his tambourine and goes to help Miss Patty with decorating. She watches Luke as she works, wondering about things she hasn't wondered about except in the deepest patches of night.

Her heart races whenever he passes out of sight and a relieved rush washes over whenever he once again occupies her landscape. She notices that his clothes are tailored to fit him, displaying the contours of his body that she used to trace when they lay together in the morning and he pretended to be asleep. She breathes in sharply as she remembers-

Her back is pressed against his front and she was using his arm as a pillow. One hand is splayed across her collarbone, the other against her lower belly.

She awakes before him, before he can tease her awake with his fingers dipping and rubbing. She smiles as his warm nakedness rubs against hers as he sighs, the hand on her belly slipping lower.

She kisses the inside of his other hand and turns so that she can run her mouth alongside the ridge of his stubbly jaw. She can see the muscle in his cheek start to twitch and she kisses it, moving across to nip his nose then place a light kiss on his mouth, which bares a faint grin.

She kisses the hollow of his neck and then pushes on his shoulders so that he is flat on his back. She traces his pecs, circling each nipple before moving down to his stomach and outlining his abs. She runs her fingers down his side and below the sheets, feeling his muscles tense up and hearing a quick intake of breath.

"Are you awake now?" she whispers in his ear and leans back to watch his face begin to break into a highly erotic smile.

"No."

Her stroking becomes much more insistent and one leg comes up, freeing up more space for her to maneuver.

"Oooh, so you like that?"

"Yeah," he answers, "thanks for scratching them for me."

She squeezes and he yelps in pain and amusement, his deep laugh shaking the two of them.

She lets go and slides over him, molding her body to his. "You don't deserve my wake ups," she says against his lips.

"No, I do deserve them. How else am I going to get up in the morning?" he says before kissing her and rolling her beneath him.

"God," she murmurs, quickly resuming making 'Yale' streamers. Coupled with her hot cheeks, sweaty palms, and sudden anxiety, she slices her finger as she's cutting out a 'Y'.

"Jesus, Lorelai, honey, are you okay?" Miss Patty asks as she grabs her fingers and begins using the cotton balls on the table to staunch the blood.

"I'm fine, Patty, I was...I slipped and, whoo, it's really hot out here, isn't it?" she responds, fanning herself with some construction paper.

"Lorelai, dear, it's a balmy 75 degrees," Miss Patty says gently, peering into her flushed face.

"Patty, what's going on here? Why is Lorelai's face so flushed? Oh, my God, is that blood? Morey! Lorelai's bleedin'!" Babette yells as she comes over.

"Babette, I'm fine. No need to call the American Red Cross."

"Did she say the Red Cross? Is she losin' that much blood? Morey!" Babette calls out again and Lorelai gets up, taking the cotton balls from Patty and holding them to the small cut on her forefinger.

"Patty, Babette, I'm fine. I swear. I'm going to go get a band-aid. Call Morey off from sounding the sirens," she says as she backs away from their concerned faces.

"What was she doin' while she was cuttin'? Morey? It's okay, crisis averted!"

"Looking over at the prodigal son. She was daydreaming and then she turned pink. It was cute."

"Ah, daydreamin'. Yeah, I would daydream about him all day too, lucky bastard."

"He is spectacular."

Both ladies sigh as Lorelai walks wildly through the square, heading to Doose's.

"Lorelai?"

She turns swiftly at his voice and looses her balance on the curb, falling over her heels and onto the street.

"Shit," she exclaims as reaches for her broken heel, "I paid two hundred dollars for these shoes!"

Luke holds out a hand and she takes it absently, letting him pull her to her feet.

"Are you okay?" he asks as she continues to mourn the loss of her shoe.

"I'm fine, it's my shoes. My shoes," she grumbles as she limps to the other side of the street, falling on to a bench.

"Your ankle looks a little swollen, let me look at it," he says as he takes a seat next to her, already lifting her leg up and placing it on his lap.

She doesn't say anything while he gingerly examines her ankle, his knuckles occasionally brushing the side of her calf.

"How are your shoes?"

She shakes her head, realizing she was staring at his profile. She fumbles with the shoes, stupidly trying to attach the heel.

"On their way to shoe heaven. Say hello to my Gucci boots, girls," she says morosely.

"You probably twisted your ankle," he says with a sigh, leaning back to look at her with curious blue eyes.

"What?" she asks after they sit staring at each other, irritated.

"Nothing," he answers with a shrug, "I just never seen someone carry on so over a pair of shoes. Even if they did cost two hundred dollars. And another thing, why would you buy heels you'll probably never wear again?"

"Because I can and because these are my Yale Graduation shoes, shoes Rory picked out for me, that's why. And they were on sale, believe it or not, and, you know, why am I even explaining myself to you? Who are you, exactly, to pass judgment on how I spend the money I work hard to earn?" she asks heatedly.

His eyes narrow. "A sane person who cares more about their bodily person than about inanimate objects."

She sits up straighter on the bench, her cheeks growing hot.

"You haven't changed at all since I saw you. You still have that 'you mere mortals are nothing compared to I, Luke' look that can frost over the Amazon, you still talk in that high-handed tone as if I haven't lived long enough to know anything except my times table. You don't know me, Luke."

"I know you," he challenges, the blue of his eyes crackling.

"Yeah, well, whatever you think you might know expired about, what," she counts her fingers, "thirteen years ago?"

"I know that tonight you're going to have to put ice on that nice ass of yours. I know that you're going home after this party to watch at least one shoe-related movie in the midst of watching a probable list of what you consider 'coming of age' films with Rory. I know that Sookie will make you food after Rory leaves for New York next week because she knows, as well as I know, that you won't be able to get out of bed for the first two days, then when you do, you would probably kill yourself by eating the four year old pizza in your freezer," he states bitingly.

The blood thunders in her ears and sudden tears film over her vision of him. Damn him, she thinks, furious and sick because he is the only one in the world who knows her better than herself. Well, maybe Rory pulls a medium second, but he knows her too well. Still.

She opens her mouth to say something, but her brain forces her to slide her leg away from his lap and stand up, reminding her that even though she might want to absolutely devour this man despite how maddeningly correct he might be, she still has an ounce or two left of her pride.

She winces as she applies some pressure to her inflamed ankle, but her eyes are cool as the look down upon him. The sky darkens and a gusty wind picks up, carrying the scent of heavy downpour.

"I'm going to go home, get changed, and come back to finish whatever needs finishing. I appreciate your help, but I've been getting along fine without you, Luke. Really. I haven't fallen apart in years and I won't fall apart now, especially not now, when you sitting there, smoldering and beautiful. So I'm going home," she turns away from him and starts limping away.

Just then rain starts falling heavily and everyone in the square darts under the tents. He stands and quickly catches up with her.

"Lorelai-"

"Luke, please," she looks over at him, her eyes dark and pained, "please, just… don't be you. Let me walk home in the rain with my increasingly aching ankle and sour mood. I need the walk, I need the rain."

He stops and she continues to limp away from him.

She is picking over her mini-fight with Luke while searching her inner rolodex for a cobbler while praising her hidden pre-cognizant skills for choosing the dark blue silk dress instead of the nearly sheer pale green dress while reminding herself that she should carry an umbrella and have a scooter on hand for when she decides to walk in a gale when she sees him, standing nonchalantly on her lawn with his hands in his pockets.

She pauses a few yards away, stunned. He has his back to her and seems to be looking up at the house. His clothes cling to him and she lets out a startled laugh when she sees his tan feet in the grass.

He turns around and they meet each other in the middle of the yard.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, raising her voice so she can hear him.

"You can't tell me to stop being me," he yells.

"I never asked you to!"

"Yes, you did, maybe not so much out loud but I saw it in your eyes. Lorelai," he grips her shoulders, "I don't want to tell you this, here, in the middle of a storm on your lawn, and maybe you don't want to hear it, but I came back because-"

She doesn't let him finish his sentence. She drops everything in her hands and puts them on either side of his face, bringing his mouth down easily to hers.

It's like putting aloe on sunburned skin, it's like drinking water after days of thirst, it's like stepping onto land after months at sea, it's like making a great meal, it's like going to the orchestra for the first time, it's like surfing the biggest wave the locals have seen in years, it's like standing on the Empire State building and watching the ants below, it's like floating on the ocean, it's like riding the fastest rollercoaster, it's like freshly made chocolate chip cookies with ice cold milk.

She leans back from him to look into his eyes, to make sure that he's staring back; to make sure they are both breathing and not drowning.


	31. Legs Will Break

**July 2007**

"You can make eggplant parmesan."

"I made that yesterday."

"You can make baba ghanoush."

"I made that for lunch."

"You can boil the eggplant and mash it with some butter, feed it to your horrible little boy."

"Michel, leave me alone."

"How can I leave you alone when you are having a fit over a bushel of eggplant! It is eggplant! Cook it! Sell it! Stop driving the kitchen staff mad because they come to me and complain and I do not care!"

Sookie glowers at him, said bushel of eggplant sitting between them on the kitchen's wooden island.

"And where is the coffee, hmmm? Have you forgotten the coffee in the midst of your eggplant crisis?"

"It's in the oven. I was hiding it from you, but now I want you to go away, so fill a cup and vanish," she responds absently, her mind going back to the matter at hand: eggplant.

Why, for the love of all things holy, did she agree to ten bushels of eggplant? Why? Oh, I know why, she thinks, gritting her teeth, I was being harassed while making sure Davy ate his oatmeal and not mold it into dinosaurs while trying to occupy Martha from destroying something else while burping Susie, that's why.

"Sookie, eggplant's such a versatile vegetable. Think of all the recipes there are for eggplant, think of all the meals you can cook," she mimics, taking a knife and stabbing one of the eggplants, lifting it out from its comrades.

"Mmmm, almonds," Michel breathes as he takes a sip, smiling like a cat.

"You know what they say Michel," she chops the end of the eggplant off, "if it tastes like almonds and it's not supposed to, it's poisoned."

Michel dismisses her with a stoop of his teeth and leaves just as Lorelai comes in, going straight to the coffee machine.

"Nooooooooooo!!!! Michel, I'm going to write to France and tell them to take you back!" she yells as she searches for the pot.

"Where did the ratatouille put it? Where? Oooh, the novelty of having a French concierge is wearing off," she mutters to herself, looking under the sink.

Sookie retrieves the pot from the oven, pours it in a cup, and taps her on the shoulder.

"It's Almond Hazelnut and I haven't heard you this Michel hating so early in the morning in a long time," she says as she hands Lorelai the cup, who takes it and takes a deep drink, closing her eyes with a smile.

"Oh, I'm happy," she opens one eye, looking her friend up and down, "and you are upset. Eggplant?"

"Yes! They are my bane, my reason for dreading walking into the kitchen, my Bertha Mason!" she cries, taking a seat at the island, putting her head in her hands.

"But remember, my dear Jane, Bertha dies and you and Mr. Rochester get together," Lorelai says as she sits next to her.

"Yeah, whoop-dee-do," she responds lamely, looking from her hands to her friend, who is smiling dreamily into her cup.

"It was good, huh?"

"Sook, it's always good." They laugh and Sookie sits up straighter, ready to do the requisite best friend talk fest.

"How is it without Rory?"

Lorelai sets down her cup and angles her head to one side, shrugging. "Terrible, as was expected. I helped her decorate her apartment last week, which was a nightmare because her taste is minimal and mine is 'Crate and Barrel packed into a dorm room' as she describes it. It took incredible, super human, Amazonian strength to drive away from her. She wanted to stand on the curb and wave goodbye, but I told her that I would be crying and then I would drive off the Brooklyn Bridge because of her waving and my crying, so there was no waving and I drove away feeling like someone cut my spine out instead of someone cutting my heart, liver, and stomach out."

Sookie rubs her arm, apologetic.

"But Luke's there, right?"

Lorelai smiles. "Yeah, he's there. He's there when I wake up in the morning, when I go to sleep, when I have breakfast, when I shave my legs. I always thought that after Rory left, I wouldn't be able to breathe, let alone laugh, but I'm laughing."

"But what about April? And the businesses?"

"The business, well, get this," she leans forward, lowering her voice, "Luke is tech savvy. He slips on his reading glasses, takes his laptop out of his 23rd century case, bangs around on the keyboard, and five minutes later, he's hemming and hawing over what I call dinner."

They giggle like two girls gossiping and then Lorelai gets serious, her blue eyes changing.

"I don't really know about April. He says she's fine, he went to Seattle to spend the fourth of July with her and I was expecting her to come back with him, but he told me she's spending the rest of the summer in Canada with Leslie."

She sighs, lifting her shoulders as if she's trying to shake something off. "I don't want to push him, you know? I don't want to walk on that plane next week thinking of how I might've lost him again because I was impatient, because I wanted it all now."

"But is that wrong, Lorelai? Is it wrong to want to know what's going on with his daughter? It'll eat at you until it comes out at the worst possible moment and you will get on that plane, heartbroken yet again and then I'll have to break both his legs, which would be a pity because I like Luke, I really do."

They smile at each other and Lorelai inhales sharply, a sign that she's making up her mind.

"You're right, I have to ask. And I have to save him from having his legs broken."

"Good," Sookie nods, "'cause you know I'll do it too."

"Now," she stands and resumes slicing the eggplant, "what do you think about an eggplant casserole with braised pork loin and green green spring vegetables?"

Lorelai goes to the sink to wash out her cup. "Are you telling me that while I was pouring my heart out you were thinking of dinner?"

"Yep."

"Oh my God, you're my long lost sister, Carmelita."


	32. Dirtiest Clean

**A/N:** Most of the upcoming chapters will be set in the year 2007.

The title is taken from the song "My Moon My Man" by Feist. I have to give props to the song "Teach U A Lesson" by Robin Thicke for psyching me up to write this chapter. Enjoy.

**May 2007**

"I don't care what you came here to say. You're here. You've kept me waiting for so long and now, you're here and I don't want to talk anymore. I want to feel. I want to feel you here," she takes his hand and puts his fingers against her lips, their warmth making her shiver.

He kisses her, this time with the passion of a man who has gone long without human contact, lifting her off the grass and holding her to him. He carries her across the lawn and onto the porch, still kissing, and she pushes the door open, mentally noting that afterwards she'll have hell to pay because it was unlocked.

Afterwards.

The word makes her grin as she holds onto him, bumping into the living room. Mouths still connected, they peel saturated clothes from their slick skin, the cool air of the house raises bumps on their flesh as they stumble up the stairs, pausing to remove more articles of clothing.

She moves back from him when they are in her room, standing before each other naked except for dripping undergarments.

They are silent as they watch each other, their faces somber, their eyes glow in the cloudy darkness, full of the other.

"C'mere," he whispers and she goes, wheeled in like a fish on a line by the soft treble of his voice, by the luminescent blue of his gaze.

They kiss again, slowly, savoring every new taste, remembering every old one. Soon the kiss changes to one of impatience, their collective need battling out their want to take it slow.

He strips her of her bra and panties and kneels before her, tracking kisses over each breast and down her stomach to her pelvis, where he does things with his tongue that she did not know could be done with any tongue.

She rocks against his oral ministrations, her nails digging into his shoulders as her carriers her closer and closer to the kind of orgasmic pleasure she has not had in years. Her limbs start to tremble as the sensation becomes tighter and she is softly chanting his name as he continues his slow, thorough exploration.

Just as she's about to turn into liquid, he stops, breathing heavily, clutching her as tightly as she is clutching him.

"Why" she takes a steadying breath, "did you stop?"

He brings her down so that they are facing each other on their knees. She can feel his erection and her spine melts, her only support now being the hands pressing her close to him.

"Because I want to do this," he lays her down and kisses her hotly, ranging the length of his body over hers.

"And this," he teases her breasts, lathing and nipping her into writhing ecstasy, her body undulating as he continues to undo all those kinks in her system except one, the most primal and satisfying one.

She hooks a leg over his, raising her body to meet his completely. She gasps and he sucks in air as every nerve ending is set on fire. She forgot how easy a fit they are, how simple it is for them to come together.

They both begin to rock and stroke, their skin glistening in the stormy darkness, their breaths becoming shorter.

"God, Luke," she moans as his movements become longer and deeper, causing her to move at his pace.

"Lorelai," he says hoarsely, calling out her name as he climaxes, her own orgasm following closely behind.

They lay in silence, their minds trying to resume some sense of order. It takes her what seems like hours to finally realize that they are on the floor, at the base of the bed. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, feeling like she is breathing in the freshest air the body can withstand.

Her hand travels up his back to where his head lays on her chest, right above her heart. She can feel his eyelashes against her skin, blinking lethargically. She combs her hand through his hair and he kisses the flesh of her rib cage before turning his head to look at her, his blue eyes shaded.

They stare at each other, so many words passing between them, so many apologies and would be fights and questions and answers. So many years pass between them as blue meets blue, unblinkingly serious. Never breaking eye contact, she moves from him, getting up to help him up.

They go into the bathroom and shower, not speaking, still staring at one another, examining how the other lathers, how the other rinses. He soaps her legs and she gets his back and they both wash the shampoo out of their hair. She hands him a towel and they dry off. She ties the towel around his waist and he tightens the rope around her robe. They retrieve their clothes and he washes them while she hunts for the pair of faded jeans and blue, white and green flannel that she couldn't bear to part with.

They dress, fixing each other's wardrobe. He smells her neck when she sprays her favorite perfume, inhaling so deeply that they both sway, in danger of falling all over again.

She finishes applying a light covering of make-up and motions to him that they should be leaving. He goes downstairs ahead of her and looks in the hall closet for the huge purple polka-dotted umbrella he knows will be there and for his boots, which he knows she kept.

He is waiting for her at the door and they step out onto the porch, the rain still coming down in torrents. She locks her door and he opens the umbrella, the both of them stepping off the porch in matching strides.

They are midway through the yard when he stops and asks, "You left your door unlocked?"

She smiles, takes his hand and they continue through the rain.


	33. Lorelai, Plural

**A/N:** I haven't done any real interactions between Rory and Lorelai, Lorelai and her parents, and Rory and Paris and Lane, so I'm going to try to cure that. Enjoy.

**November 2007**

"Mom?"

Lorelai turns over in the darkness, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"Rory?" she asks, her voice groggy.

"I've got some coffee downstairs. I need to talk."

The bed bounces and she can see a willowy figure exit her room. The stairs creak as the figure trudges down them and she can see a light from downstairs.

Rory is here? At-she glances at the clock, her head falling back into the pillow, groaning- three-thirty in the a.m.?

She swings herself out of bed and grasps for her robe in the darkness, tripping over her packed suitcases.

"Damn, shit," she hisses as she stubs a toe and she hops out the room and down the steps, walking on the sides of her feet as she enters the kitchen.

She blinks rapidly, shaking herself into awareness, adjusting her eyesight so she can see the child who woke her from her first deep sleep in months.

There is her daughter, sitting at the little table, her shoulders hunched over a bowl of cereal, her comfort food, and a big mug of steaming black liquid opposite her, where Lorelai supposes she is to sit.

"Rory, what's wrong?" Lorelai asks immediately, cutting the typical opening number and getting straight to the point.

"I ran out of milk and Fruit Loops," Rory responds with a false smile, her eyes shimmering with tears.

"Rory," Lorelai says, her voice level, taking the seat opposite her, her heart beating at a painfully irregular beat.

"I made a mistake Mom, I ruined everything, I tensed up, I couldn't act, I just let him walk in and walk out without telling him how I felt, how I still feel, how much he means to me," she rambles, her voice edging into panic.

"Whoa, whoa, back up! Who? With who did you make this mistake?"

"Jess!" she exclaims, getting up from her chair and pacing the floor.

"He came to my apartment, he gave me a manuscript to read about our one night stand that wasn't a one night stand but the actualization of our feelings. He wrote about everything, about his feelings, about how I grew up, who I was, who I am, like he snuck into my room and read my diaries, picked my brain. He fleshed me out, Mom. I was on that page, I was reading me and I saw the question in his eyes, I saw the emotion and I wanted to say it too, but I got scared. I froze and now I'm here, pacing the floor, in a state of severe disarray because…because…" she ends, standing before Lorelai, a look of helplessness darkening her usually light eyes.

"Because you love him," Lorelai finishes for her and Rory slumps back into her seat, picking up her spoon and loading it with cereal.

Lorelai takes a long draught of the steaming liquid, the caffeine instantly causing her brain to start turning at a faster pace. She sets the cup down and leans her elbows on the table, watching Rory closely.

"Can I have some?"

Rory shrugs, pushing the bowl towards her.

"Ah hah! You never give up Fruit Loops. This revelation must be serious," Lorelai states as she spoons some fruity milk into her coffee.

"Oh, so my driving from New York to your graveled driveway doesn't indicate my distress at this new development?"

"But is it really that new, Rory? From the moment I met Jess, I got that vibe, that 'she's my Natalie Portman, my Lisa Loeb, my Postal Service, my Garden State soundtrack.' I've always known how he felt for you."

"What?" Rory exclaims, taking back her bowl.

"What what? I've always known," Lorelai says again, taking a sip and scrunching her face. "God, this needs an Australian makeover," she says as she gets up, going to the fridge to look for heavy cream.

"Why didn't you say something? Why did you let me make a fool out of myself with Logan?" Rory demands when Lorelai comes back to the table.

"Because it's not my place to make decisions about your romantic future. You've always been independent and you always do what's right for you. At the time, you thought Logan was right, so I bit my tongue and let you realize, at your own leisure, that you were actually going to marry a dickhead who'll probably turn out to be a supreme bastard like his father."

Rory scoffs, getting up to get more milk and cereal. "Would you really have let me go through with it, knowing what you know, oh all-seeing one?"

Lorelai waits until she comes back to the table to reach across and rest a hand on her arm. "I would've stood up in that church and yelled, 'Nay, Father, I dost thou protesteth that this fair dark lady hath giveth her heart to another, thou lad o'er yonder!' and pointed to Jess, who would stand up and look at you with those brown eyes and I would be getting a call six months later telling me I will be a grandmother."

Rory fights back a smile, shaking her head. "I liked that Old English bit. Reminded me of Four Weddings and a Funeral."

Lorelai angles her face and squints her eye, inspecting a face she knows so well she can sculpt it out of chocolate from memory alone.

"You do look a bit like Hugh Grant."

"Oh, so he's my Daddy!"

Lorelai laughs. "Hah, you wish."

Rory smiles and takes her mother's hand. "I'm glad I came home. I can't eat Fruit Loops without you."

Lorelai gets up and hugs her daughter, enveloping her in her arms.

"I want you to happy and only you can decide who and what makes you happy," she sets Rory away from her, "and that's the most important thing I can ever give you, besides your great skin, electric blue eyes and natural grace- your independence."

Rory nods solemnly. "And I love Jess."

Lorelai rubs her back. "Yeah, you do."

Rory spoons up some cereal, holding it out for Lorelai.

"It's your turn to eat from the ceremonial speaking bowl."

Lorelai sighs and takes the spoonful.

"I haven't called him yet. And I don't want to. And I'm leaving again for Rome in three days, so let's not talk about it, hmmm?"

Rory nods, understanding lining her face. "You guys are so stupid."

Lorelai laughs sadly. "And you drove all the way here to eat Fruit Loops and come to a conclusion that you already reached years ago. Ain't we a fine pair?"


	34. Ghosting

**May 2007**

When she gets behind the wheel, that's when everything hits her at 135 mph.

She's engaged.

Engaged to Logan Huntzberger.

Her grandparents know before her Mom.

She's wearing a cousin to the Hope Diamond around her neck.

She hates dinners with his parents.

Her grandparents know before her Mom.

Who's going to walk her down the aisle? Luke is back…no, that's wrong, Christopher is her father. He's lousy, yeah, but he's not dead and he's clean.

Jess should know.

That last brick causes her body to shake with apprehension. Jess wouldn't care if, by some freak accident, she gets hits with a toilet seat cover falling from space, like that girl in that Showtime show, which was very good. Mandy Patinkin was in it, and he was in Chicago Hope, which totally beats ER's ass, even when it's in a vault.

She shakes her head, rearranging her thoughts. No, she has to focus. Take things a step at a time.

Put key in ignition and start car. She places the key in the ignition and starts the car.

Place gear in reverse and back out of parking space. Gear is placed in reverse and she is out of the space.

Now drive.

She drives without really thinking. Her body is on autopilot, bringing her closer and closer to home. The closer she gets to Stars Hollow, though, the heavier the chain around her neck becomes. By the time she drives past the road to Main Street, she feels as if she's drowning in promises she knows she'll never keep.

It is raining when she reaches her house. She leaves her things and hastily gets out of the car, running through the yard and up the porch steps, finding the door locked when she slams into it.

"Mom!" she cries, pounding on the door. Her mother does not come running.

She runs back to her car and screams when she finds the door locked.

"Damn it!" she yells, spinning around to lean against the car, rain pouring down her face and molding her expensive silk dress to her. She starts to go back to the cover of the porch but she stops in the middle of the yard and looks up into the sky, the salty drops causing her eyes to burn.

"I'm not ready! Shit!!" she yells.

A clap of thunder answers her.

She sighs and starts walking away from the house, towards the square, hoping that Lane is home and she can be confused with her.

She rounds a corner, muttering to herself. Her head is bent and she is so focused on her feet that it takes her a couple of seconds to recognize that rain has stopped falling on her.

"You look a little wet."

Jess is standing beside her, holding an umbrella over them. She is speechless.

He smiles at her awkwardly and slips a hand in his pocket.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, regaining her sense of self.

"I'm here to say congrats and that I'm sorry for not rsvp-ing."

She nods.

"I got locked out of my car and my mother's not home and she locked the door, which is something she never does and I'm-"

He shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. "You're engaged."

She nods again, completely blown away. "Yeah, how did you know?"

He nods towards her chest. "I saw the rock flashing about a yard away."

They stare at each other and begin to walk. She finds herself looking up at him to make sure that she isn't having some pre-pneumonia hallucination.

"Please, stop doing that," he says looking ahead and she focuses on something else, like how their strides match.

"Look, I'm glad for you, okay? I didn't come here to try and win you or make a scene, none of that bullshit. Luke called me, wrung me out about how I'm being a jerk by not being here, and I felt pretty shitty already, so I rented a car and made it in time for the party, but you were nowhere to be found."

"Well, you found me," she says after awhile.

"Lorelai was panicking, she kept calling you and Luke kept calling and finally I had to be the one with enough sense to go out in the rain and look for you at home," he continues, ignoring her statement and her stomach tightens into knots.

"Where is my mother anyway? And why would Luke need to call you for some little shindig Patty will be having?" she asks, allowing herself to get caught up in something other than what she's feeling.

He looks over at her, his crooked smile shining at her. "Because of what's ahead."

She turns her head from him speculatively and her mouth drops open. There is her mother, waving and yelling her name like a crazy person. And then there is everyone that she has seen on a daily basis since she could remember surrounding her crazy mother. Well, almost everyone.

Luke is there, standing besides her mother, clapping, his smile evident through the rain.

She looks over at him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes watering.

"They did all this for me, I…" she loses her breath and turns back to all the people under the tents, waving and cheering.

"Here, take the umbrella and go," Jess says, placing the handle in her grasped hands.

She steps forward a couple of feet, laughing, but turns back, beckoning for him.

"No, I have to go."

She goes to him, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him hard. He hugs her back, holding her close, his cheek against hers.

It feels so good to be here, she says inwardly and is about to say it aloud when he steps back, a pained smile on his face.

She nods and turns, running across the street to the square, straight into the arms of her mother and the town.

She looks back once, for some reason thinking that he might still be there, standing in the rain, but he is gone. As always.


	35. Friday Night Pattern

**September 2005**

**Drinks**

"What would you like to drink Lorelai?"

"Gin and tonic."

"Richard?"

"Dry scotch."

Silence.

"This is a very good gin and tonic Mom, excellent."

"It's the same gin and tonic from last Friday."

"But you only keep tonic for three days."

"So?"

"So the tonic from last Friday is not the tonic for tonight, therefore the tonic in my gin and tonic is not the same, therefore my gin and tonic is different from last Friday and it is excellent."

"Lorelai-"

"Take the compliment Emily, please."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mom."

Silence.

"Mrs. Gilmore, dinner is ready to be served."

"Oh, good."

"Great."

"Can't wait to see what my mother hasn't cooked."

**Dinner**

"Lorelai, just because I do not stick my hand into the bowels of a chicken doesn't mean I'm not instrumental in the process that it takes to put a good meal on this table, a meal that is most likely the cornerstone of your food intake."

"No, the cornerstone of my food intake is Puffed Cheetos and Jones Blueberry Pomegranate Soda."

"Pomegranate? I haven't heard that word in such a long time. I remember the last time I had pomegranate, I was in the West Indies for business-"

"Of course you were, Richard. When do you ever go somewhere tropical for vacation?"

"-and I went out into the local town for lunch and ordered something totally alien to me- fruit salad."

"See? I knew we had something else in common besides being eternally tied to Emily Gilmore."

"It had the most exotic fruit-passion fruit, star fruit, papaya, pomegranates. It was fantastic. That reminds me, I should look into real estate down there."

"What ever for, Richard? There are hurricanes in that part of the world."

"There are hurricanes in this part of the world too, Emily. I just want to have some assets scattered here and there, for Rory."

"Well, we have that house on Martha's Vineyard, and the town home in London-"

"Don't forget the villa in Tuscany and the planetarium at Yale and the jet you share with the Grimeltobs."

"We don't have a villa in Tuscany."

"I know, I was hinting that you should have one because maybe one day Rory will get a divorce, see that her life in America is utterly stagnant, move to Tuscany, meets a crazy ex-pat who lives La Dolce Vita, a man who is good-natured and sexy and generally great but is already married with kids, and a sexy, stereotypical Italian man who leads her on and in the end she finds that only she can make her life rewarding and in the very, very end marries some struggling American writer. And she can't experience and do all these things if she doesn't have a villa that is in disrepair."

"Why would I buy a villa in disrepair?"

"Because she needs to hire this team of oddball construction workers who become her family and then she needs to have the toilet do something weird so that she can call her lesbian friend-that's who I was missing!"

"Rory has a lesbian friend?"

"I don't know, but this Rory does and she's pregnant and she comes to live with Rory and she has a beautiful baby boy who will have a gorgeous tan for the rest of his life."

"This is a movie, isn't it?"

"Why, mother, it is. Under the Tuscan Sun."

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all. I thought movies without DAR connotations were blacklisted by this section of Connecticut."

"I thought so too. I didn't even know you watched movies, Emily."

"Really, the both of you are being silly. I watch plenty of movies. I've seen Braveheart, Saving Private Ryan, The English Patient, I even saw The Matrix."

"No!"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Rory. We had a film fest."

"What?"

"Yes. It was one of those weekends when you and Christopher wanted to work things out and Rory came over for Friday night dinner and stated the whole weekend. We ate pizza, had ice cream, and watched movies all night. I had a particular fondness for The Lord of the Rings."

"You did?"

"Really?"

"Why is this so shocking to the two of you? Yes, I do see things! What, Lorelai, do you thing you're the only one who can grasp the concept of modern film? And you, Richard, when was the last time you went to a movie theatre, hmmm?"

"Well, Emily, I apologize for assuming you, what is the term, of the old school."

"Oh my God, the cook put something in the salmon."

**Coffee**

"So, Lorelai, have you heard from Christopher lately?"

"No, should I have heard from Christopher?"

"He has some very important news."

Silence.

"Well?"

"Oh, is this where I'm supposed to care?"

"I thought the two of you were making some headway?"

"No, we're done making headway."

"Yes, you say that and six months later I'll open the door to see you and Christopher draped all over each other, announcing your love."

"First of all, you won't be opening the door, your maid Margenta will and secondly, I do not drape. I lean."

"Lorelai."

"Emily."

"What are you waiting for Lorelai?"

"For George Clooney to make a wrong turn and up at the inn."

"Emily, why don't we leave it alone for today?"

"I will not leave it alone, Richard. I will not leave it alone because I do not want to subject myself to anymore false hopes and order any more luncheons and plan pre-engagement parties. I do not want her to come to dinner, distraught and behaving normally because she has thrown away yet another chance with Christopher."

"Mom, please, can we just sit here, drink this ridiculously expensive coffee and talk about the state of the economy or Jon Stewart? I'd rather talk about Jon Stewart."

"But Lorelai-"

"Who is Jon Stewart? I heard some of my younger partners talking about him and his politics. Is he a pundit like Tim Russert?"

"Oh, Dad, he is so far removed from Tim Russert, he's like Elijah Woods in The Good Son."

"So I'm going to be ignored? Is that how this family deals with issues now?"

"I rather like Tim Russert."

"Good for you Dad."

**Sleep**

"Richard?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Rory talked about this man, a Luke Danes. She told me about him, about him and Lorelai."

"Luke Danes?"

"Yes. He's a businessman. A small one."

"Does his business turn a profit?"

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"Well what is the point, Emily? I'm tired."

"What if he is the person who is holding Lorelai back? What if she is waiting for this man?"

"We have to let her live her life Emily. We are her parents, we support her in her decisions, and if she wants to be with a man besides Christopher, then she has my blessing. Every time I look at that boy I want to punch him."

"There's no need to get upset, Richard. I'll do it your way-for now."

"Thank you. I love you and don't meddle anymore."

"I don't meddle!"

Silence.

"I press for information."

"Goodnight Emily."

"Goodnight Richard."


End file.
